Horizon
by Alpha Ori
Summary: After the events of Arcane Land, Legolas recovers as he plans the union of Elvendom. Gildor finds his purpose, Galadriel learns a little more of herself, and Thranduil will reveal himself for the first time in over two thousand years. Please heed the rating - this story is slash, like every other story I have published. Explicit chapters will be censored, as per FFnet policies.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue: overture

Gracefully smooth velvet stretched over utterly rigid muscle - slid seductively, flirtingly, over his own battle-hardened palm as it traversed the impossibly beauteous curves and angles of his warrior love. The questing hand slowed down but for a moment as it glided tentatively over the ridges and swirls of twisted, uneven flesh and muscle, until it passed and all was silken glory once more.

He turned his head towards the nascent sun, closed his eyes and basked in the comforting warmth that shone upon his serene face, his hand resting protectively where it had finally ended its morning quest, softly yet possessively over the soft flesh that lay between the sprawled limbs of a slumbering king.

A soft smile graced Glorfindel's lips as his mind wandered back to the last few months of recovery. 'Who would have thought,' he mused, as his hand registered the now swelling and hardening flesh below. Turning his head back to his lover, he looked down upon bright green eyes that beckoned to his own, now half-lidded and hazy – green eyes that spoke silent words to him; '_I love you – I want you.'_

The now hard flesh beneath his hand arched upwards, searching and finding the resistance it so desired, a soft gasp escaping the sensuous mouth, the plush lips that moved towards his own and took his mouth, demanding, imperious, tempting beyond all reason – dangerously irresistible.

As Glorfindel was pulled down and rolled onto his back, the now awakened Forest Lord stared down at his High Constable, and with but a mischievous yet sinfully erotic half-smile, Glorfindel of Gondolin and Imladris was covered and taken, commanded yet revered, hard and yet so very tenderly.

Later, sated and content, Glorfindel sat before the balcony doors, his open silk robe pooling opulently around his sprawled, otherwise naked body, the brush of warmth from the nearby hearth lending a cozy comfort to his already relaxed body. He felt good and he smiled as he sipped slowly and purposefully from a goblet of full, red wine he cupped in both hands, registering the potent, woody retro-nasal aroma that tickled his jaw, and then swallowing and closing his eyes as the cool, exquisite liquid flowed down his throat like a silken ribbon, and fiery, spicy air rushed from his nostrils – this was Thranduil's brew, there could be no doubt about it.

His sharp eyes scanned the autumn gardens below, and his ears registered the sloshing of water as his lover bathed nearby. Five months, a scant five months was all it had taken to get him back on his feet, back into military life once more – stronger, wiser, more beautiful than Glorfindel had ever remembered seeing him – even his mind had found its balance once more.

Legolas would finally be declared fit for active duty today, and with that simple but explicit proclamation, Glorfindel knew that everything would begin, and there would be no turning back. What lay on the horizon was becoming stronger, no longer doubted or unfelt, but present and palpable. And yet Elvendom had still not reached consensus on the need for a high king, nor indeed for the joint elven army that Legolas had been planning laboriously for so long now - and without consensus, their plan was unviable.

Alas, it was time to rise and dress, for the happiness he had felt that morning was now accompanied by trepidation and the weight of duty, yet it was not unpleasant – how could it be? His smile was back and he rose with purpose, glided into the bathing chamber, and closed the door. Duty could wait another hour, but Glorfindel's burning desire for Legolas could not.


	2. Moving the Pieces

Chapter notes: this chapter takes place immediately after the events narrated in The Apprentice. It stands alone, but you may want to read that short side story first.

Chapter one: moving the pieces

South-western border of The Greenwood

Their horses ambled leisurely, heavy hooves thudding softly over the lush vegetation that lined the banks of the sparkling grey waters of the Anduin, just inside the tree line along the western edge of the Greenwood. In a few hours it would become the Mirkwood, and they would turn west towards Lothlorien, for that area was not to be traversed by two alone, however skilled they may be. For now, however, they could permit themselves the luxury of loosening their reigns and allowing their horses to lead the way, for the trees still rustled their late summer leaves, basking in the last rays of September sunshine, and the languid presence of their lord.

Galdithion rode a little behind his charge, bodyguard that he was. He was the first line of protection for the king's son, Yavanna's Protégé, his friend, and High King, if Elrond had his way. It had always been thus since he had memory of the world and himself. Indeed, Thranduil's naming him had been a mere formality, for it had always come naturally to the Silvan born and bred warrior to protect his friend. His love for Legolas was second to none, parallel only with the love he bore for Elrond's warrior son, Elladan.

The Forest Lord was quiet, introspective, lost in a world that Galdithion could not fathom. He had been that way since he had emerged from the forest, half naked and somewhat – _absent_, and Galdithion had been left wondering what it was that had happened in those strange weeks in which he had disappeared, in search of Radagast and tutoring in the magic bestowed upon him by Lady Yavanna herself.

Galdithion and The Company had waited for him, now almost a month ago, on a forward journey from the main caravan travelling from Imladris to Lothlorien. They had diligently scouted the area they imagined the odd couple to be in, ensuring their safety, yet not once had master and apprentice been seen, heard, or even intuited – 'not surprising,' he mused, for one was a Maia, and the other a mage. Yet that last night, just before Legolas' reappearance, a strange, haunting song had echoed through the woods, banishing all that was twisted and unnatural, infusing them all with giddy love, optimism and all-encompassing , nerve-tingling awe, for it had struck a primal chord in their hearts, wood-elves that they were.

His thoughts turned back to Elladan then, as they so often did – 'he would have reached the Golden Wood three weeks ago,' he mused, a soft smile gracing his lips as his lover's face came to his mind's eye, delighting it with that strong, noble face, one he had come to love so well, one that was now eternal, Peredhel in name only, he recalled with joy.

Elladan had travelled together with Glorfindel and Elrond, armed with scrolls and parchments, arguments and counter arguments, for so far, Galadriel had not accepted Legolas as high king, and neither had she agreed to the terms for the joint elven army. 'Stubborn and proud,' mused Galdithion, 'and somewhat ambitious,' he added, for though he did not dislike the Lady, he found her demeanor somewhat – unnecessary. He was pure Silvan, and as such he was nothing if not humble and practical – he appreciated straightforwardness. Of course he understood the necessity for a ruler to show strength and command – yet Galadriel was too … purposefully enigmatic, would not speak openly, preferring instead to speak in riddles or leave one to deduce the truth without ever confirming it - it did nothing but frustrate him. 'Funny,' he snorted to himself, 'how opposite she and Celeborn were, and yet one glance at the Silvan lord together with his bonded mate, told of deep love and respect.' There was obviously a side to her that Galdithion ignored, something he did not understand and so he kept his judgment at bay, for it was true – he did not dislike her – she simply…unnerved him, and he knew not the usefulness of that in one that ruled.

As he swayed idly atop his horse, he moved up to Legolas' side, watching his lord's profile for a few moments, something that his friend allowed, albeit he moved not, a sure sign he was not ready to break the prolonged silence. He was inexplicably beautiful, had always been since he had alighted from his mother's womb. Galdithion remembered her little, only that he had adored her, for she doted on them both, sat them upon her velvet-clad lap and fed them, sang to them, listened to their adventures – and then there were her eyes – those eyes of shocking green that he could never forget, for he saw them every day in Legolas' face.

A deep sigh and he focused on his friend's face once more. He seemed somewhat – disheveled, and that was unusual, for correct presentation had been high on the king's list of priorities, and again he wondered what magical events had taken place wherever it was Legolas had disappeared to. He seemed far away, not lost, but dazed – in a different world, unaware of his loose hair, tangled and rebellious, his dreamy, half-lidded expression and his unbuttoned shirt and open tunic – 'as a lover,' he mused, 'after a tumble in the woods.'

It must have been transcendental, he realized, for his friend was changed – in some deep way, as a newly emerged butterfly, still unsure of the brand new world around it.

Little did he know that that was exactly where Legolas was, in the world of nature, just as Aiwendil had taught him. He had hardly spoken a word since yesterday, and had only spared a few words of farewell to The Company before setting off towards Lothlorien. They had another three days before reaching its borders, three days that promised to be … _quiet_, mused Galdithion sourly.

Indeed, Legolas was ironing out the extraordinary events of the past few weeks, weeks in which he had finally learned of the nature of his magic, and although no expert just yet, he could now, at least, harness it somewhat, travel to that place that Aiwendil had shown him and 'see' the world of nature. He had also learned more of why he had been chosen for this task, rather than a more powerful being, such as a Maia – _and,_ he had learned a little more of the Ainur – 'well, perhaps a _lot _more,' he smiled saucily…

However, his musings came to an abrupt halt, and he was cast back into the real world, feeling as Galdithion stiffened beside him, and a warning brushed over his own conscious mind, a soft but frigid caress of anxiety tightening his gut. Now fully alert, he cast his eyes about as he strained his hearing, seeking the source of danger. With his eyes now clear and sharp and his body tensed in anticipation, one hand caressed the fine wood of his carved longbow with deadly intent as his mind worked to provide the answers it sought.

"Wargs, Gal, from our left – inside the tree line, there are eight of them, mounted, and a group of around 20 – orcs or Uruks, I know not."

Gal's brow was no longer furrowed but creased with multiple lines from the strain of holding his eyebrows high upon his forehead. How on Arda had he gleaned all that information in but scant seconds? 'Nay, better not ask,' he berated himself, 'for it was surely magic.' Legolas had always been most blessed in his ability to communicate with the forest; but now, it was as if he read an open book.

"We cannot engage, and I do not think they are aware of us yet. Let us away quietly for a while, and then we will pick up our pace. We have dawdled for too long, my friend, I am sorry."

Well, Gal was not going to disagree with that, and the plan was sound, of course, and so they walked their horses briskly away in single file, their senses on full alert, until dusk had fallen and they had found a suitable place to camp. They lit no fire, made no noise, and took little rest, for their senses told them they were still too near to danger for comfort.

Legolas' senses had peaked uncomfortably just before dawn, and so the pair mounted and left, as quietly and cautiously as they had arrived. Once the sun had appeared, low on the eastern horizon, Legolas turned to Gal, this mouth set in a thin line – an expression that the guard recognized all too well - concern.

"Gal, I believe they follow us, though why they have not attacked is a mystery to me. The longer they wait, the nearer we are to safety. If their plan is to assail us, they will do so this very morning, for they surely know our destination – now is the time for speed my friend, we should reach the western borders of Lorien by tomorrow night, if we ride hard…" and with that, they shared a determined nod and spurred their horses into a gallop, for stealth was no longer necessary … they were being hunted.

…..

The Council Chamber, Lothlorien

"I know you are wary of our plans, of his plans, yet I also know you understand the wherefore of them. The need to unite us all is great, this you know, Lady Galadriel. Someone has to do it, and it will not be me – I do not choose that path, should not, for the Valar did not choose me, they chose him, _crowned_ him, this you also know, for you were there," said Elrond from his place in the very centre of the imposing talan that Galadriel and Celeborn used as their council chambers.

The five chief councilors of their realm sat on the sidelines, opposite Glorfindel, Elladan, and Llyniel, the Greenwood advisor who had arrived just two days previously. Their faces were set in a rictus of stone, not the slightest tick or change of expression to offer some sort of insight into what they were thinking, or how they were reacting to Elrond's words. They looked haughty, thought Elladan, but then all politicians had that effect on him – this was his brother's realm of excellence. Yet his position as Legolas' herald made his presence necessary, just like Glorfindel's, who incidentally, marked Elladan, was sitting staring off at some point behind the advisors – he was bored, and Elladan smirked to himself. Well, who could blame him?

"…. and yet you resist calling him king, _high king_ – for reasons I can only guess at, for you are a princess of the Noldor, your father king of those that did not travel East. Your own claim would be valid, Lady Galadriel, I will not doubt that – and yet, you are of that house; Artanis, daughter of Finrod, grand-daughter of Finwë and Olwë but also, niece of _Fëanor_... I need not tell you why this both validates and truncates any efforts that you would make to claim this right."

He paused a moment for effect, first arranging his black and burgundy robes around his arms, and then breathing deeply and continuing,. "I know your heart to be true, but what of your ancestors? Where are they? What of their intentions, should they ever be returned? They did not accept the will of the Valar, but then – neither did you. And then, what of the Silvans, the Avari, the Sindar? You know of their rejection, their refusal to be ruled by those they consider rebels to their own cause, for personal gain and a need for vengeance outweighed the common good, and many of their own were slaughtered by those that served under the rule of _your house_."

He paused again, for he played a dangerous game. He was provoking a reaction, anything that would leech the real problem from the stone. He chanced a quick glance at Celeborn, who sat together with his councilors, yet his face was a little softer, and it occurred to Elrond that Galadriel's husband did not, perhaps, agree with her opposition – it was a risk, but he was almost sure of it, and would most certainly take advantage of it.

"So tell me, Lady Galadriel, tell me why you resist, for if you do not doubt the need, then you doubt the chosen one, and you doubt the Valar for crowning him."

Harsh breaths drew attention to the Lorien advisors, who had, apparently, taken offence at the possibility that their Lady doubted the will of the Valar, their faces no longer stony and neutral but outraged. There it was, he had, finally, provoked a reaction, and it was Galadriel herself, however, that raised her perfectly manicured hand to stave off any comments on the matter.

"How to tell you of my reservations to what you propose – where to begin?" she began rhetorically, her shining white robes glittering around her, enveloping her in a shroud of purity that could never reflect her true self. She knew what Elrond was doing, and she was just as good as he was at the game. "You are right in that my claim would be true, of that there can be no doubt. Yet experience has taught me that for what is to come, we must choose wisely, Elrond, not choose by default. I do not say I do not trust Legolas to possess the strength that will be needed, but it is not only the strength of the body but of the mind – of the intellect – the ability to truly join not only our nations, but those of the other races – men, dwarves, – it will take great empathy and much tolerance to do this thing. I simply do not know that he can do it."

All five councilors turned their heads in unison towards the Noldorin lord that was their Lady's son-in-law. Celeborn, however, looked to the floor – 'interesting,' thought Elladan.

"Yet how to persuade you that he can?" countered Elrond. "You ask for proof that cannot be had save by the doing of this thing," cautioned Elrond, his brow furrowed in confusion now, for Galadriel asked the impossible, and he suddenly realized she was clutching at straws. But again, the reasons eluded him and she was still not forthcoming.

"You see, as for uniting humans, dwarves and elves… I must tell you that this first came from Lord Legolas' mouth – it was _he_ who understood the need, and the importance of humans – _one human_ …. And as for the strength of mind, my Lady, you will excuse me if I say that you would not doubt that, had you any idea of the battle that rages in the Mirkwood …"

More gasps of outrage heralded one advisor springing to his feet in indignation.

"Dare you claim that my Lady is ignorant of Thranduil's fight with Dol Guldur?"

However, before Elrond could placate the outraged advisor, Glorfindel had strode somewhat imposingly into the centre of the floor, his penetrating blue eyes boring into the scowling advisor's somewhat surprised face, his colleages' eyes cast to the floor.

"My Lord advisor," he began, his voice low, calm, steady yet oh so very intense. "In my presence, you will show due respect for my Lord King Thranduil, for I too, am Lord of that land," he said, his eyes lingering a little longer upon the advisor, who finally turned away before speaking again.

"You have my apology, Lord Glorfindel, yet no slight was intended. We in Lorien know what our Silvan kin face every day, we know of their losses and the slow, agonizing poisoning of its woods – do not presume to meet our arguments with fallacies of ignorance…" said the advisor, his tone picking up, his attention shifting from Glorfindel to Elrond once more, yet again, he ad not the opportunity to speak, for Llyniel stood at his side.

"Do you, my Lords? Do you truly know the extent of my land's suffering and sacrifice? For you speak of losses and that is true; you speak of the decay of our trees, and that too, is true – and yet, what of the cost to the soul, my Lords? What of our warriors that suffer the effects of darkness – that weapon the Dark Lord casts about the tower, emanating it like a dark tide of despair and deep suffering that suffuses the very soul – what of their cries, the atrocities they are forced to commit? What of the Sîdhoneth* that kills elven children, that they may be saved from rape or worse? What of our warriors that hold their tongues as their friends are tortured, raped or disemboweled? Do you, my Lords?" she asked softly once more, "do you truly know the extent of my land's suffering, and the strength it takes to hold it together?"

Silence now dominated the arena, as Llyniel studied the advisors' faces, just as her father had taught her. She had reached them, of that there could be no doubt. Elrond too, was watching them carefully, until one – a blonde elf with open features and rosy cheeks stood to speak – he was undoubtedly Silvan.

"Advisor, for my part, I doubt we could ever be aware of all that your people face; it is my hope then, that during this summit, we can come together and share these things, for you truly have my sympathy, and my deepest respect," he said, to which Llyniel bowed in thanks.

The incident had, in fact, helped more than it had hindered, for although the other advisors had not commented on it, they too, were sympathetic to the Greenwood's plight.

It was Galadriel who turned and walked to the edge of the platform before returning slowly towards the centre, now cleared of warriors and advisors who had taken their seats once more.

"I know you will argue that the Valar believe he can, and that is your biggest point of persuasion, but I am a pragmatic person, Elrond, I will believe when I have seen for myself that he does, indeed, possess those qualities that a high king must needs have. I have long since buried my qualms about the Valar, yet they are not infallible – this I still believe. Indeed it was to be Aiwendil to carry out this task, this did Lady Yavanna argue – a choice that ultimately, proved spurious. The…"

She broke off suddenly, her face turning to the side a little, her brow set deeply in concentration…

…..

It seemed so loud to his own, pounding ears, the pulse of his blood resounding in his head, his harsh breathing providing a counterpoint to it, and then the thudding of his steed's frantic gallop as Legolas pushed him harder, faster, the insensate body of his friend shielded under his own, bent low over the pumping, muscled neck of his loyal horse.

A glance behind him confirmed that Galdithion's horse was following, just behind and to the right of Legolas, just where his guard would have positioned himself, had done so when the skirmish broke out, taking the arrow that the Forest Lord knew had been directed at him.

However, his negative thoughts got no further, for he felt a brush against his mind, permission to gain entrance and save him the effort of explaining himself. He allowed it, for he was so very tired, so very worried.

He slowed his steed to a light canter, for the trees were becoming thicker. He was safe, he realized, inside Lorien's ring of protection. Yet before he could stop his forward motion, an arrow flew past his head – purposefully missing it, yet close enough to send thin strands of silken hair into the air around him. Pulling up abruptly, he wheeled his horse around, grabbed the offending missile from the branch where it had embedded itself and turned to face the four grey-clad warriors who stood defiantly before him.

His bright green eyes narrowed perilously until they were but slits of shining emerald, his nostrils flaring in anger. Only their leader held the fierce glare, smirked even, as Legolas drew closer to him, Galdithion's horse mirroring Legolas'.

"Is this how Lorien greets its kin?" he growled, throwing the arrow to the ground as if disgusted.

"Is this how the Greenwood presents itself?" sneered the one who stood slightly to the front , his eyes wandering to the obvious woodland designs of the elf's clothing - yet before Legolas could give his scathing retort to the arrogant warden, the leader visibly flinched, his face turning sour as he lowered his eyes.

"We will escort you into Caras Galadhon – _my Lord_, follow us," he commanded.

"On foot? Can you not see this warrior is injured? I must away with all haste – have you no sense, _warden_?" spat Legolas, fury beginning to show as his face transformed into a thing that would strike fear in the heart of the fiercest warrior, for his nostrils flared, and his green eyes flashed dangerously, and a hint of perilous unpredictability began to seep into the warden's conscience.

Indeed, Avorn himself was, by now, seething at the Forest Lord's disrespect, but he could not quite bring himself to take things any further than they had already gone, and his lady had made her wishes quite clear. And so, swallowing his burning desire to pull what he now knew was Thranduil's spawn from his horse and beat him senseless, he ground out the words he was honor-bound to say.

"Go then, the Lady will guide you. I will alert the other patrols … lest they _shoot _you in your haste," he drawled, allowing himself this one last luxury in spite of the tongue-lashing he had just received from Galadriel, and the promise of revenge plastered all over the Forest Lord's face. He could not, would not take back his words, but he was beginning to berate himself for his haste, for he had not cowed this – would-be-king at all, on the contrary he may very well have just caused himself a major problem.

"Let them try!" growled Legolas angrily, his jaw clenched, his face reflecting the promise of sweet revenge, indeed Legolas was not perfect at all, and was certainly not adverse to the prospect of roughing this one up – he would enjoy it. Yet not now, for Gal needed attention, and so he kicked his horse's flanks once more, cantering away from the on-looking guards and towards Caras Galadhon, where he knew he was not yet expected.

….

His shoulder was strangely numb, yet a throb emanated from it, down to his finger tips, across his chest and down to his belly. He felt warm and shrouded somehow, protected, yet how he could not say. His body was damaged, yet he felt inexplicably comforted, safe in the arms that supported him. He drifted away then, the promise of rest, food and the peerless presence of his dark lover lulling him with care and love, into contented reverie …he lurched to the side and the arms tightened around him, pulled him back until he rested against the solid presence once more, a steadfast heart, a peerless friend – Legolas.

…

He finally cantered into the sparsely built area where he believed the stables to be. _How_ he knew that was beyond him, for he had never been to Lorien. He could only assume that Galadriel had, indeed, guided him, just as the warden had told him she would. He was conscious of not taking stock of his surroundings, for he was simply too tired. He knew it would be beautiful, could hear the strange language of the Mellryn humming in the background, but he could not bring it to the fore yet, for he would lose himself in it, he was sure.

Legolas was only half surprised to find Elladan, Glorfindel and Elrond, waiting together with Galadriel and Celeborn, the stunning Arwen at his side. A scattered group of dazed onlookers joined them, albeit they stayed further behind, having happened upon the scene quite by surprise.

The Forest Lord was the only visitor of importance due to arrive, yet if this was him, he was early. After so much speculation, paradoxically, hardly anyone would mark his coming, save for the lords and this smattering of lucky citizens. Gossip had been rife for many weeks now, and the ensuing debate had been as heated as it had been passionate. For some, he was their warrior king and savior, for others, the arrogant upstart son of a self-proclaimed king, and for yet others, simply the promise of a good lay. Yet the citizens of Lothlorien were, predominantly Silvan, with a large minority of Noldorin elves that had initially preferred the lordship of Galadriel to that of Elrond Peredhel. It was, however, the Silvan majority that swayed between the sometimes hateful words of certain sectors of the Noldo and the hard core of Silvan warriors, who were overwhelmingly favorable to Legolas and his aspiration to the throne as high king.

Glorfindel's eyes scrutinized his lover's body – he was beautiful, as always, yet today he seemed dangerous, fey, disheveled and oh so very enticing as he was, his mass of pale hair falling chaotically around him, down his back and past his saddle, brushing his thighs. He knew what the others were thinking, what they would be aspiring for, and he suddenly felt so very proud of himself for having won this one's heart. Oh, he would share his body, of that there could be no mistake, but his heart – his heart was his alone.

However, he seemed somehow absent, as if not quite aware of his surroundings. His eyes were unfocussed and his mouth slightly open – as if he were listening to something, thought Glorfindel.

A healer nudged Legolas' leg, gesturing silently to the body still nestled against his chest. Looking down as if seeing Galdithion for the first time, the Forest Lord slowly loosened his vice-like grip on his friend, feeling his bones and muscles crying out to him as he did so, for they had been in tension for many long hours.

As Galdithion emerged from the arms of his protector, Elladan rushed forward to help his colleague, Elrond a discreet few paces behind. They had been right, of course, it _had_ been Galdithion that travelled with Legolas. Elladan had been fretting for the hours it had taken Legolas to arrive, yet he had been cautiously confident that his betrothed was not dead, for surely he would have felt that, or detected something in his grandmother's demeanor.

As they slowly lowered the body into the healers' arms, Elladan was, as a healer, perplexed, for the stub of a black arrow protruded from his lover's shoulder, yet his face was that of one who slept – serene, an almost imperceptible smile of contented reverie upon his lovely face. Elladan looked up to Legolas, a puzzled yet unvoiced question on his lips, his answer but an enigmatic smile from the exhausted Forest Lord, content it seemed, for having eased his friend's distress. Returning the smile, in spite of his distress, Elladan nodded his thanks respectfully, before slowly turning and accompanying his father and the Lorien healers, yet not before catching Glorfindel's eyes and gesturing subtly in Legolas' direction.

Elladan's warning, however, was wholly unnecessary, for Glorfindel was more than experienced as a warrior, yet he could not whisk his own lover away just yet, for protocol would not allow it, and neither, indeed, would Legolas, who remained upon his steed, looking down upon them blankly.

Galadriel had been granted a momentary glimpse into his mind, one that would give her many days of contemplation. She wondered though, why it was he had not dismounted as protocol dictated – was he imposing his authority already? she wondered somewhat petulantly – yet no sooner had she thought it, than the skeptical thought dissipated, banned to a dark corner of her mind where she knew it belonged, for she knew it was not true.

"Their voices are strange to me…"

"Legolas?" asked Celeborn, not quite understanding what the prince was talking about.

"'Tis hauntingly beautiful, sad, and yet – the _power _…" he murmured, his lips barely moving at all.

They waited patiently, for Legolas seemed to be in communion, with whom they could not say, only guess, but interrupting him was not an option.

It was but seconds before he blinked and his eyes focused once more, coming back to the present, only to realize the lords were waiting for him to dismount, a look of thoughtful curiosity upon their serene faces. He was a little annoyed at himself for losing control of his senses, however momentary it had been, and for showing his own weakness, his exhaustion.

It took a warrior's understanding to break the ensuing uncomfortable moment, and Glorfindel stepped forward, placing his open palm upon Legolas' bare, scraped knee. Closing his eyes a little longer than necessary, Legolas pulled his aching body together and slowly dismounted, feeling Glorfindel's hidden hand at his side, in case he should falter – he didn't, but moved forward with a somewhat stilted movement, until he was before the lords, bowing reverently before them as best he could, his mind now completely shuttered.

"Please forgive my errant behavior, my Lady, and thank you for your help," he said simply.

"I will have words with my marchwarden over the conduct of Avorn, you have my apologies for the rude welcome, my Lord," she said sincerely.

Their eyes locked momentarily, before Legolas nodded, registering the name in his mind for future use, and then turned to greet Celeborn, leaving Glorfindel to wonder what had happened, and who this Avorn was, that had dared hinder his lover.

"Well met, Lord Legolas, now please – dispense with the formalities and go with Lord Glorfindel and find your rest," he said with a kind smile, taking in the difficult movements, and the strange circular wounds upon his arms and his face.

"I will, my Lord, once I have greeted the Lady Arwen, he said, smiling adoringly at the dark-haired, silver-eyed maiden that could have been his, could still be his, should he want her.

"Well met, my Queen," he said, continuing with their nascent ritual of exalting each other with the words they had both used when first they had met, both lost in the haze of insight.

She smiled so that her light lifted his spirit in a way only Glorfindel could surpass. "Well met, my King," she answered, eliciting a subtle intake of breath from Galadriel.

They embraced then, and Legolas felt comforted through the suede and leather of his attire, for her essence seemed to seep through it, sink under his skin and then spread like a warm tingle through his tired body. "Go with your love, my friend," she murmured only for him. "Rest, and I will find you tomorrow, for I covet your presence."

Pulling away, Legolas looked long into her spell-binding eyes, the deep friendship they both felt burning brightly for all to see. The finally turned away from her, and to Glorfindel.

"I must ensure that Galdithion will make a full recovery – if you will excuse us?" he asked, to which Galadriel nodded, and Celeborn smiled, for he liked the boy, had done ever since they had met that strange night the Greenwood caravan had been assailed on its way into Imladris.

Now alone, although still under public scrutiny, they walked in proud silence towards the halls of healing, yet they got no further than the antechamber, where they were met by a healer, hands spread out before him in a gesture of appeasement.

"I am sorry, my Lords, but you can go no further. Captain Galdithion is being tended to by Lord Elrond himself – he is in the best of hands," he said calmy, although his eyes had not left Legolas' hair, and his eyes were altogether too wide for one that is collected and in control.

"We know," said Glorfindel equally calmly, "yet we would hear the prognosis as soon as it is available," he said, his face reinforcing the fact that this was not a request, but an order, albeit a polite one.

"I understand, my Lords, I will see to it," he replied, finally ripping his gaze from the disheveled yet incomprehensible beauty of the Forest Lord.

Once he had left, Glorfindel turned to his lover, alone for the first time since his arrival, and kissed him softly upon the lips, his hand covering the right side of his face, thumb brushing lovingly over the high, regal cheekbone.

"What happened," he whispered.

"We were tracked and then attacked by orcs – Glorfindel, that arrow in Gal's shoulder was meant for me," he emphasized, before continuing. "We were lucky, for he kept his seat long enough for me to reach him, yet they tried to bring us down with…stones… I can only surmise that they wanted to take us alive. From there we galloped for a day and a half, until reaching the borders…"

"And how did Galadriel help you?" he asked, wondering about the comment Legolas had made on his arrival.

"She – _persuaded_ an over-zealous border guard to let me pass…" he said, a half-smile on his lips, for though he had not heard her words, he could well imagine it had been quite the opposite.

"Over-zealous?" asked Glorfindel suspiciously.

"Do not worry yourself, Glorfindel – let us sit, for I admit to feeling somewhat tired."

"Of course, forgive me. Come – as soon as we have gleaned enough information for you to relax a little, you will eat, bathe and sleep – and, you will let me see to those wounds – how did you get these?" he asked, prodding one of the circular wounds on his arm in fascination.

"I told you, stones…"

Glorfindel's face softened as he reached out a hand to caress the soft, dirt streaked cheek.

"I have missed you, and we have much to catch up on – once Elrond gives us his assurances, you will allow me to tend to you," he said, no question in his voice at all.

Legolas smiled sparsely, dropping his head for a moment before looking back up into his extraordinary lover's eyes. He moved closer, already feeling the brush of soft lips upon his own, yet he pulled back when he heard the door open once more, revealing Elrond, still wiping his wet, clean hands, and another Lorien healer at his side.

"Ah, Lord Legolas," he said, all business, yet any that knew him would have detected a slight undercurrent of smug realization – he had interrupted a private moment, one Elrond could all too well imagine.

"Captain Galdithion is resting and out of danger. He has three or four days of bed rest ahead of him, after which he should be fit to guard you once more."

Legolas' chest deflated then, the final traces of adrenalin rushing from him so that he almost visibly sagged, the tiredness of days of flight, stealth and battle finally manifesting itself in his taxed body.

"And Lord Elladan is with him?" he asked, knowing that he was, but reinforcing the idea that he would not have his friend left in the hands of the healers alone.

Elrond smiled kindly. "Indeed he is, go and rest, my Lord. I will see you on the morrow, for we must needs take council you and I," he said meaningfully.

"Of course," nodded the Forest Lord, understanding the need for protocol here in Lorien, for any political slip could endanger their plans. It was not that their relationship would be ethically unacceptable, indeed it was common knowledge, but Elrond's enthusiasm for proclaiming Legolas as High King could be misconstrued by the citizens at large – the crazed actions of a love struck elven lord. Legolas almost laughed at the notion, nevertheless it was true, he knew he was up for criticism, and as such, he could not give them the slightest ammunition against him or his plans. Let them question the facts and the arguments, not the person…

With that, Elrond nodded, and grabbed the arm of the healer at his side, for he had not moved at all, even when Elrond was already reaching for the door.

"Come, you fool," he said fondly, "close your mouth, lest you drool over your patients."

….

Heaven, he decided, was here. He had sat in the fragrant waters of the spectacular bathing area their talan was graced with, as Glorfindel had scrubbed every inch of his skin, including his scalp. He had then rubbed Elrond's special oil into his Red Fang wound, and then he had kneaded every knotted muscle in his body, leaving him a quivering mass of relaxed flesh that yearned for both sleep and sex.

He swirled the goblet of deep red wine he held, as he lay on one side, but a thin silken sheet slung, almost by accident, over his body. Before him, Glorfindel lay almost identically, admiring his lover in pleasant silence, a feeling of deep well-being washing over him such as he had never felt, even in these uncertain times could bliss be had in the simple contemplation of the one you loved, he mused, and then the questions were back and he wondered which to give voice to first.

Legolas smiled as he took a generous gulp of wine and swallowed noisily.

"You have questions," he stated, his gaze forthright, expectant.

"Aye, I have many, and if sleep can wait, I would ask them."

"Then come, and sate your curiosity," he said, drinking once more of the excellent vintage.

"You are _changed _somehow – I cannot fathom how, for you look the same as when last I saw you, and yet not so – whatever has changed I cannot grasp, cannot describe…"

Legolas held his gaze for a moment, collecting his own words, for how to describe what had happened to him in the weeks they had been parted?

"I have learned many things under the tuition of the Brown Wizard," he said softly, his gaze straying past Glorfindel, glazing slightly as if he were reliving something.

"I have learned to temper the magic, control it, move inside it, and especially – I have learned to enter the world of nature, cross the boundary of the mundane and see the nature of things as _they _perceive it, as they see, smell, hear and feel…"

"They?" asked Glorfindel.

"The trees, plant life, animal life, they do not perceive as we do. The light, the colours of their world, the way they communicate, move – it is all so very different, and so … enthralling, Glorfindel I do scant service to it with my poor words."

"You do well enough, but tell me, what is the importance of this, save the obvious?"

"It allows me to see – to really _see_, past outward appearances. It also allows me to join with others that can move in that place, there is no need for my body to be present. I can communicate in this place, take council – you see my point?" asked Legolas.

"Indeed, it is useful indeed – but, who else can do this? Who could give you council in such a manner?"

At this Legolas smiled enigmatically, for here was the true weapon.

"Any who possess this magic of course, yet more importantly – Mithrandir, Aiwendil…"

"Ah – useful indeed then," a gigantic understatement, but the revelation surely justified it.

"I will confess," began Legolas, "that when first I realized that I could really see the essence of a being – it was Aiwendil himself that I saw – not as a wizened old man of the forest, but as a shining angel," he said, a look of awe and wonder on his face. Glorfindel listened carefully, sipping on his own wine as he waited for the tale.

"At first I did not realize it was him, for his hair was so long, a red so intense it was as liquid fire and his eyes – so blue and bright against his skin of pearly white – Glorfindel, my love – he was, is, _beautiful._"

At this, Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was guessing correctly.

"And you…_did it_….with a _Maia?_" he asked softly.

"He took me in his exquisite mouth and made me moan like a virgin, Glorfindel," he said, holding his love's gaze in something akin to challenge, sipping once more on his wine, his eyes dancing over the tipped brim. Tired he was, but hunger was fast winning the game.

Setting his own goblet down somewhat abruptly, Glorfindel shuffled closer to the reclining lord, looking into his laughing eyes with his own, hungry gaze.

"Then I will make you scream like no virgin ever could," he growled, covering his lover's lips with his own, one hand tangling almost desperately into his long silken mane as he brought his body flush with Legolas.

"No Maia, no Valar could ever love you the way I do," he whispered harshly, before he rolled Legolas onto his back and took his face in his hands. "Your body was made to be shared, for such perfection cannot be locked away, art is to be contemplated – yet your heart, Legolas, tell me of your _heart_…" he said beseechingly, his hands removing the silk sheet and replacing it with the warm, pulsating smoothness of his own, lustful flesh.

"My heart was ever yours, will always be yours, mighty warrior of Gondolin, twice-born and chosen of the Valar – come to me, then? For with but a touch of your hand, you bring to me such joy I cannot describe."

Glorfindel's smile was wide, joy lighting his face as it split almost in two in his happiness, and then he turned serious once more, as a wave of agonizing love hit him hard and he descended upon Legolas in desperation, until he was pushing himself inside, and every thrust was a declaration of his love, every gasp a thank you, and when finally he came, his moans were a promise of eternity in bliss.

_*Sîdhoneth – peace-giver, elven warriors that take it upon themselves to sacrifice their own kin, should their suffering become unbearable._


	3. Communication

Chapter Two: communication

Like the crispy brown leaves that would soon grace the forest floors of Arda, his tongue slowly detached itself from the roof of his arid mouth. He wondered for one, foggy moment, whether he had been injured, but nay, not so – he had ridden hard for almost two days, cradling the body of his injured friend. Undernourished and somewhat dehydrated, he had arrived last night, and after seeing to Galdithion's welfare, had been whisked away by Glorfindel, where he had, indeed, been truly waited upon.

'It must be well into the morning,' he mused foggily, stretching languidly on the king-size bed he now realized he alone occupied, his stiff muscles pulling uncomfortably. A good workout was what he needed, but that was a luxury that would have to wait until he could seek council with Elrond and visit with Galdithion. Elrond had been adamant about speaking before council, and Legolas knew he was right; he would need the input before he found himself inexorably pulled into the political debate, his back figuratively pushed up against the wall.

Pulling himself reluctantly to his feet, he made for the bathing chamber, spotting his luggage which had been transported from Imladris. Relief washed over him, for he had carried hardly anything with him during his journey into the Greenwood, and what little he had carried, was certainly not suitable for the tasks that awaited him this morning. Selecting a formal, calf-length tunic of deep burgundy, black breeches and boots, he fished out his smaller mithril circlet - no use giving the impression he wished to impose his status on the citizens of Lorien, or much less, upon its lords. Indeed today, there could be no overdressing, no jewelry or open shirts - nothing that would draw attention to himself – there would be time enough for that. Brushing through his hair, he pulled the sides back from his face and braided it, leaving it to lie in counterpoint with his otherwise loose mane. Finally, he donned the circlet which although small, was exquisitely wrought.

His stomach grumbled, yet he was sure to have missed breakfast, he realized with a puerile scowl, and so he stood, and took a long, steadying breath, for he knew that once he stepped out of this room, protocol would begin and he would be 'Lord Legolas,' the thought achieving nothing more than to turn his scowl into a grimace. Nonetheless, he duteously lifted his chin and schooled his features, opened the door and stepped out in princely elegance - into the perilous world of Lorien politics.

No sooner had he left the talan, and that subtle song was back in his mind once more – tentative, flirtatious, inviting him into communion, snaking temptingly around his Silvan senses. He wanted it, was fascinated by it, needed to plunge himself into its depths and become one with it – but he _could_ not, not yet. He decided then, that he would find time later that evening and his thought seemed to have been projected, for their murmurs faded – not into silence, but back to the distant, expectant hum they had maintained throughout the night, and Legolas smiled, for they were courteous indeed, if not a little mischievous he noted with a slight arch of an eyebrow.

Glorfindel stood at the bottom of the wide steps that led down from the spacious talan they had been assigned, and to Legolas' great joy, Marchwarden Haldir was with him, smiling up at him as he descended the final steps, forearms already outstretched for Legolas to clasp them, which he did with a warrior's vigour.

"Haldir, my friend! 'Tis good to see you once more," said Legolas enthusiastically, for it was true. Haldir had impressed him most favorably the time they had met during the Spring Festival, both as a warrior and friend. Indeed, Haldir was Glorfindel's ex-lover, and Legolas could well understand why.

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Legolas – I am truly pleased to meet you once more, here, in my home."

"Then perhaps we will see each other often during my stay – too much politics will drive me to exasperation without a little play, rest and relaxation – I look forward to it - ah, and just Legolas when we are at rest, my friend."

"Alright – Now you must forgive me, for alas I must leave - I have a displeased Lady to appease – I believe Avorn was most obnoxious upon your arrival, my friend, and you have my apologies for that."

"He is, indeed, a most unfortunate ambassador, Haldir, though why remains to be seen."

"His father is Noldo, and his mother Silvan. Indeed, I confess I do not understand why he belittles his mother's people - and yet he is an excellent warrior," he mused. "And I must warn you, Legolas, now that we are on that subject," he continued, his tone changing from speculative to serious and concerned. "Although there are more warriors that are favorable to your proposals, there is a healthy minority who are not, and in some cases, are most adverse to them. You would do well to guard yourself," he warned, genuinely worried. As Marchwarden, Haldir had, of course, given a rather unambiguous prep talk to his warriors. Even so, he knew that from certain sectors, that would not be enough to avoid strife.

Glorfindel already knew this, of course, resolving to accompany Legolas himself as much as he could, and when duty called him to council, he would ensure that the future king would be in the company of others. Galdithion, although recuperating well, would be in no condition to guard Legolas for at least another week, and Elladan was bound to the council chambers and to Galdithion's care. And then this … _Avorn_, popped back into his mind, his expression turning sour for a fleeting moment.

"Haldir," began Glofindel, "I think it best that you select a guard for Legolas, until Galdithion can resume his duties," he said, as if addressing one of his captains. Strangely, or so it seemed to Haldir, Legolas did not intervene – he had expected some objection to this idea, for his privacy was at stake, and yet nothing. Haldir, however, was bound to ask his friend how he felt about that.

"Legolas?"

"Haldir, I will defer to Glorfindel on this matter. If he thinks it wise, then I would thank you for your co-operation."

Haldir sketched a nod to the Forest Lord, and briefly caught Glorfindel's eyes, apologetically almost, for not obeying immediately and referring to Legolas directly. Glorfindel, however, simply smiled, for although Legolas was not yet king, and therefore _he_ was not yet High Constable, in every other way, Legolas already treated him as such, and seemed to want to show that publically, in no uncertain terms.

"I will see to it, my friends. There are plenty who would do that job with much honor. Well – if you will excuse me?"

"Of course, Haldir – we will find you later," promised Glorfindel with a smile that lit up the marchwarden's face, noticed Legolas with interest, yet before he could voice his curiosity, Glorfindel spoke once more.

"You slept long, my love – I left you as late as possible. Breakfast awaits you in Elrond's talan, though – I thought you might like to know," said Glorfindel knowingly – for Legolas had a hearty appetite, indeed his lover sighed in relief, a smile now gracing his lovely face. He still looked tired, mused Glorfindel, and his movements were not fluid at all.

"I must also visit with Galdithion, Glorfindel."

"Aye, of course, but you do not want to face Galadriel or her advisors without our input – that would be most unwise, for whereas Galdithion will live, _you_ – may not!" he snickered.

"Yes, I know, fresh meat for the mountain cats – come, let's get it over with," he said, and Glorfindel resisted the urge to snort, for his lover didn't seem to have the slightest idea of just how much politics was still on the table, indeed how much rejection Legolas was about to encounter.

…..

Elrond observed his son as he finished his morning ablutions. Elladan had slept in his clothes, he realized, fretting unnecessarily for his betrothed. Well, perhaps that was a little too – _clinical_, he rectified. Elladan knew full well that Galdithion would make a full recovery, yet he simply had not been able to allow him to suffer alone, had wanted to lend his steady presence, and Elrond understood that more than most.

"Elladan, have you slept at all?" he asked his son, watching as he answered, lest he bend the truth.

"Aye, I did. Llyniel joined us and we took turns to watch over him," he explained, as he began his late breakfast.

"She is a good friend, and an excellent soul, of that there can be no doubt, _and,_ she is most skilled in the art of diplomacy; she will be instrumental in our endeavor, I warrant," he mused, almost to himself.

"I hear she is skilled in other – _pursuits_ too…" he said, not meaning any offence, but he knew of her proclivity for the pleasures of the body – just like Legolas – 'must be a Silvan thing,' mused Elladan, then discarded that idea when the face of his mother came to his mind's eye and he grimaced.

Elrond simply snorted, for it was true, she was indeed versed in the ancient art, he thought, as a lazy smile came over his severe, august face. His expression snapped back into place, however, as a brisk knock resounded on the screen of his talan – 'Glorfindel, without a doubt.'

Indeed, he had been right, an elegant yet tired-looking Legolas just behind him.

"Legolas, glad I am to see your face!" said Elrond, placing a hand upon his shoulder and steering him to the table where Elladan now stood, his unfinished breakfast before him. His greeting would have been more effusive had his son not been there, and although he knew that Elladan was not averse to his relationship with Legolas, he thought it best not to flirt it too much, and so he held back, contenting himself with the beam of genuine joy that his lover gifted him with.

"How is Gal, Elladan?" asked Legolas, noting the stress lines around Elladan's eyes.

"Well enough, Legolas," he began, sitting only when Legolas did. "Your prompt arrival saved him from infection – three days of bed rest I would wager, and then he will be back at your shoulder," he said neutrally as he resumed his breakfast.

A deep breath released the last of Legolas' anxiety over his friend, yet his eyes would not leave Elladan, for he was unsure of how his friend felt about Galdithion's position, about the sacrifice he had made and would continue to make, so that Legolas may stay safe.

"Elladan – tell me truthfully, do you object to Galdithion's position?" he asked carefully, feeling the tension in the room rise, as Elrond and Glorfindel turned to Elladan.

"What? Nay! You misunderstand, my friend. I fret, yes, for you are who you are, Legolas, and there will always be those that wish to harm you – yet more than this I am _proud _of him, for his service to you as your bodyguard fills me with such love for him. I admire him, and I would have only him at your shoulder.

Legolas closed his eyes to stay the emotion that threatened to fill them before such love and loyalty, and then opened them once more, said nothing and simply smiled in affection and respect, before turning to his food in silence, swallowing it with some difficulty.

Ten minutes later, and the plates were clean, the scraping of metal over wood and clay had ceased, and future king and herald sat observing one another, a satisfied smirk on their sated faces.

"Well-met, brother," drawled Legolas, to which Elladan sketched an exaggerated nod of the head, "well met, indeed. Are you well, my friend?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I am – thanks to Galdithion and - Glorfindel saw to the rest, of course," he said coolly, to which Elladan snorted. "You are incorrigible, Legolas – one would have thought you would have crawled into bed and slept for two days after your escape from the enemy – but nay – you were messing with your lover!" he exclaimed.

"Well, who would blame me? I mean _look_ at him!" he said mischievously, "now, your father, of course…"

"Legolas – _stop_," said Elladan in his mirth – "I do not want to hear it…"

Elrond chuckled at the good-natured banter, and was sorry that he would have to interrupt it, for now was the time for briefing and defining their joint strategy.

However, a brief wrap on the screen revealed a beaming Llyn, who went straight for Legolas, throwing herself into his arms and laughing as she snuggled into the familiar heat of his strong chest – feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he hugged her close to him, breathing in his woodland scent, feeling his power envelope her, and she smiled joyously.

"Llyn – Llyniel! I had not thought to see you here," he exclaimed, holding her at arm's length and taking in the sight of her – lovely, he had always thought. She was not a delicate beauty, but a strong, noble one – handsome some would say. Yet when she laughed, her features softened so that she lit up the faces of all who had the good fortune to look upon her. Her body now, was extraordinary. Not particularly tall, but unusually athletic for a female, at least in her strong limbs, and Elbereth knew, she was so very flexible. Her breasts, however, were not athletic at all, but ample and rounded, and so very enticing.

Llyn smiled impishly as she realized her friend had lingered a little too long on her cleavage, and so she moved forward once more and pecked him on the lips. "Naughty boy," she admonished, her smile wide as she greeted the others in the room, chuckling as Elladan rolled his eyes knowingly. 'Incorrigible indeed,' he snickered to himself.

…

The next hour was spent discussing their progress, or lack thereof, on both major issues. Galadriel had so far refused to accept Legolas as high king, and would not cede on the conditions for the joint elven forces – they had not even started talks on whether Legolas would command it.

Elrond had explained his impressions as to why she was so reticent, yet also admitted his ignorance and his failure to uncover the truth of the matter, to which Glorfindel, Elladan and Llyniel agreed – they had, so far, failed.

"I once said that I would leave this issue in your hands, Elrond, and I still believe this is the wisest course. If I state my own claim, I may very well deteriorate the situation. If the lady sees that I am not pushing, not imposing my authority, perhaps the real issues will come forth. As such, I am inclined to lay low for a few days, and then take council with you once more – is that acceptable?"

"I believe that is a sound decision, Legolas," said Llyniel cautiously, casting a questioning glance at Elrond – "perhaps you will do well to sit back and observe, a fresh perspective may well shed light on the matter."

"I will, advisor," your words are wise. He smiled fondly, for she had always been adept in negotiating, ever since she, Galdithion, Henian and himself had come together in friendship. It had always been her that ironed out the skirmishes and arguments, and he had always loved her for her balance, her practical sense of fairness – her strength… and her breasts.

…

Elrond was drained after such a trying morning, in which again, his efforts had been fruitless. He had retired to his quarters to think and clear his mind before the afternoon meal, iron out his strategy for tomorrow. As such, Glorfindel accompanied him, just as Elladan would do later on, once he had spent time with Galdithion, who was becoming increasingly difficult to harness, for Elladan had kept him abreast of their negotiations, and news of his lord's rejection was riling his blood – and as for Avorn… well! He had been indignant and irate.

Legolas and Llyniel had first gone to the healing halls, where they found a fidgeting Galdithion still in bed, anchored only by Elladan, who had managed to persuade him to one more day in bed. Forest Lord and advisor had then strolled through the populated areas of Lorien, nodding their heads in greeting at all those who bowed, nodded, or simply ignored them.

Llyniel explained as they went, about the different factions he would come across. The veneration the Silvan warriors would show him, and the utter contempt of a part of the Noldor, who would bow to no one save their Lady of Light. Legolas listened attentively, nodding his understanding but saying nothing at all.

Llyniel led him further into the trees, away from the hustle and bustle, making sure they did not stray into the Noldorin areas of the city centre, or indeed, the warrior training grounds. They had no escort, and as such she did not trust to Legolas' wellbeing, indeed, the curious stares – the contempt, the love, the wary looks or the lustful leers that were thrown Legolas' way had her exhilarated one minute, and fearing for his physical integrity the next.

He had born it well, returning hate with respect, devotion with humble thanks, for he was indeed, a prince, a warrior of the Greenwood, and in that land – warriors did not show disrespect to each other. They may fight, and argue, but they would always respect one another. Yet that did not make it any easier – Legolas was, in fact, suffering, but that would never transcend, he would not allow it, not even to Llyn.

They had been walking and talking for over an hour now, as they finally stepped into a beautiful glade that Llyniel seemed to be familiar with.

"I found this place a few days ago and have come here every day since," she said wistfully, wandering away from Legolas' side and allowing her hands to trail over the tops of the wild grass and flowers that grew here.

"To think only? Have you not brought your lovers here? 'Tis the perfect place," he smiled, for indeed it was shaded, with many nooks and crannies where lovers could hide themselves away from prying eyes.

Turning back to him, she approached him once more. "Indeed I have, Legolas," she murmured, one hand reaching out to stroke the front of his formal tunic. "I have missed your friendship these past months – and… your loving," she said, looking hopefully into his peerless face.

Dipping his head momentarily, he looked into her sparkling, hopeful blue eyes and smiled, "and I have missed you, Aradaniel my friend. You tempt me, sweet Llyn and thus place yourself in peril," he whispered, pressing his body against hers demandingly, walking her backwards until her back hit a wide trunk and her breasts pushed against his chest, bulging upwards invitingly, sending a jolt to his already tingling groin.

As he brought them together with his powerful arms, her body lost all tension, her muscles relaxing and tingling in lustful anticipation, leaving her with the uncontrollable desire to feel his skin against her own, slide along it, bite into it, caress it, send him into a frenzy of pleasure and then watch him cry out his bliss – she gasped as the thought came to an end and her hands reached for his shirt and tunic, opening the clasps deftly, knowing that he watched her, that his body was preparing itself for her.

Her fingertips finally touched soft skin and she gasped, involuntarily almost – fingers and then palms questing boldly over his upper chest, brushing over hardened nipples until both hands traced the convoluted ridges of his abdomen, deftly avoiding the scar she knew marred his side.

She had him breathing harder now, knowing that his cock would be filling out, hardening and lengthening until it would stand in erect magnificence. Indeed as she looked up at him, her eyes widening in trepidation, for he stared back at her with such smoldering desire it made her blood race, for the power that emanated from every pore of his being, lent him an air of such intensity, such confidence, that she could do nothing but yield to him, as she had always done – as she suspected she always would, for though she had never confessed her feelings to him, Llyniel Aradaniel had always been in love with Legolas Thranduilion.

A few moments later, and Legolas was sliding into her, pressing her yielding body into an accommodating mallorn that held her almost as a lover would, as its lord took and gave pleasure. Twining his fingers into her chestnut locks he moved into her as his hand slid down to her cheek and he looked into her glazed, moist eyes that closed and opened with every move he made. It enflamed him, and then he faltered – just for a moment, for he had seen something he had not expected. A spark in the blue irises, something he had not seen before, or perhaps had not looked closely enough – he was not sure, for it could not be – he would have known long before now, and yet the seed of doubt was sown in his mind… just what hadn't she told him?

The mere thought of it sent him over the top, taking her with him demandingly until she cried out for long minutes, so intense was her pleasure, heightened by her lover's gasps as he thrust and then spilled inside her, flooding her with seed for longer than any other lover she had ever had.

They sat there for a while in silence; no words were passed, and the Forest Lord had finally drifted off, in spite of his intention to speak to her about his suspicions. In fact, he had fallen into such a deep sleep that he would have keeled over had it not been for Llyn's timely intervention. She smiled as she did her best to arrange the insensate body so that he would be comfortable – no easy task with one as heavy as Legolas. Nevertheless she had managed, and now sat with her back against the tree once more, this time cradling her friend's head in her lap.

She sighed heavily, for her predicament was complicated. Legolas had her heart and as much as she had tried to keep an open mind and seek out new companions, she had never been able to follow through – and yet Legolas was betrothed, to Glorfindel no less, and that gave her joy, for she was a part of their group of lovers. But could she live her life in love with one she could never bond with? Could she bond with someone else that was not _him_? She knew the answer to that question even before she had asked herself. No – she could not bond with any other, for the notion was simply…_absurd_.

She stroked the silken strands with the back of her fingers, smoothed her thumb over one, perfectly-arched eyebrow. Could she ever tell him? _Should_ she? For what would that achieve, save to make him miserable, pressure him? She knew that her father suspected, and she wondered then, if taking council with him would help to ease her worries, for she remembered that when Thranduil had announced the prince's betrothal, he had said it was to be 'conditional' – now did that mean what she thought it did? She decided then, that she would write to her father this very evening, for suddenly, she had much to discuss with the Greenwood's chief advisor, for this was a secret too long kept, one that begged to be released.

…..

Although no formal dinner had been announced, the Lorien dining halls were brimming, packed with lords and ladies, advisors and officers, all with their respective families, their daughters looking especially elegant, noted Elladan with a smirk.

Well, it was not every day that so many noble and unbounded males were present in Lorien. It was true, however, that Elladan was betrothed to Galdithion, an elf nobody had ever heard of – he was certainly no noble, and the fact that the Peredhel lord had allowed it, was cause for criticism amongst certain sectors of the minority Noldor, and even some of the Sindar. And then their own beloved Glorfindel had betrothed himself to _him _– no less. This, unlike Elladan's, was a good match of course, one that gave Glorfindel a lordship in the Greenwood, and if _he_ were to become king, then that would make the Gondolin warrior a king consort, no less.

And therein lay the source of interest, for though they were betrothed, they were all male – and noble. Their fathers would surely insist on offspring – a female would be needed as consort, a secondary mate, so to speak. Whether that was actually allowed never crossed their minds though, for kings make their own rules, or so they said.

Amongst the speculation and hushed conversations, Legolas arrived, looking conservatively formal – at least by his Greenwood standards. Even so, one arm was sleeveless, not that much skin was visible, for his entire arm, from wrist to upper bicep, was covered in bracelets and armbands, a tradition that the Galadhrim did not adhere to, even though over half of them were Silvan.

He had been heralded as Crown Prince, and then Lord of the Forests, a small concession on Galadriel's part, thought Legolas as he took up his seat beside Celeborn and Glorfindel. Indeed protocol was proving to be most revealing in illustrating just what each and every elf felt about the summit that was being held. Elladan, Glorfindel, Arwen and Elrond had risen and bowed from the waist, whereas Galadriel and Celeborn had remained seated, nodding their own subtle greeting, albeit Celeborn held his head down for much longer than his wife. However, it had been a pleasant surprise to see Haldir and a goodly number of warriors and civilians stand upon his arrival. It would put the pressure on Galadriel and the more radical factions of the Noldor and Sindar.

"Welcome, Lord Legolas. We missed you at lunch…" said Galadriel softly, yet loud enough for all at the head of the table to hear, including Llyniel and the Lorien advisors a little further away.

"Indeed I must apologize, my Lady," began Legolas as he placed the exquisitely embroidered napkin upon his velvet-clad lap. "After council this morning, I took a stroll with the Lady Llyniel, for we had much to catch up on," he said casually. "And then, I must admit," he said with a rueful smile that did nothing but to endear him more to Celeborn, "I was treacherously lulled into a deep and restoring slumber, from which I awoke not two hours ago. I confess I have done nothing but break every rule of protocol since my untimely arrival yesterday, and again, you have my apologies, my Lords," he finished, nodding to the servant, who promptly filled his goblet with wine.

"Well, galloping over river, rock and forest for two days, clinging to an injured warrior for dear life does tend to tire one out, however strong they be – you will hear no criticism from me, Lord Legolas," said Celeborn warmly as he raised his glass.

"Welcome, Forest Lord!" he exclaimed, to which the room echoed, and then drank, yet their eyes never left the head of the table and the object of their tribute, for however much Legolas tried not to draw attention to himself, it was, quite simply, impossible.

As dinner progressed, the eyes of many elves went a-wandering. Legolas's features were schooled with the utmost discipline, observed Galadriel, knowing that he knew she observed him, she and her advisors – masters in the art of semiotics. He had been well-taught, she mused. As for Glorfindel, whose questing hand had come to rest on the hard, muscled thigh of his betrothed, he observed Elrond with interest. The Lord of Imladris was unusually quiet and pensive, but there was a spark in his eye that had the warrior perplexed – it was almost as if he kept a great secret – a good one. Aye, that was exactly it. Now what could have happened in the short time they had been parted? Perhaps Elrond had found the inspiration he had been searching for… he mused.

"Tell us, Lord Legolas," began the lady, bringing her dinner guests back to the collective now. "Have you communed with the Mellryn yet? For I heard them calling to you, or so it seemed to me," she said in a soft, gentle tone of voice that shared nothing with the hard, sharp discourse she had used in council.

"Not yet, my Lady. I have not had the time to sit with them since my arrival."

"Do not keep them waiting, for they are impatient," she smiled.

Yet surprisingly to all who listened, Legolas' reply was not what they would have expected.

"Not so, my Lady – indeed they are nothing if not patient. They know I cannot commune with them for the first time with but five minutes of time. They wait, and they wait patiently, it is I who am impatient, for their voices are unlike any I have ever heard, save for the great mother sentinels of the Greenwood – their voices are similar…" he realized even as he spoke the words, his strange eyes slipping momentarily to the side.

After a few moments of silence, Galadriel spoke once more.

"I did not mean it literally, my Lord, for I do not hear them as such, I can only capture a little of their thoughts, but I cannot understand their language – nor _do what you do_…" she added, poignantly, holding his gaze for a few seconds.

"Then trust me, my Lady. They are reverent of the folk that live amongst them, and I know that the sentiment is returned, for the most part – they await patiently, and I will not be long in joining them," he finished, returning to his food, as he wondered if he had, perhaps, been a little too harsh with her.

Elrond, however, was delighted, for Legolas was not cowed by her at all and had just shown as much. 'Good, very good indeed,' he said to himself, for the tide was finally turning – he was sure of it.

…..

With dinner finally over, Legolas had begged leave of everyone so that he may spend his evening in the woods, asking only that he not be disturbed if at all possible. Galadriel had nodded her consent, after which they had all drifted away; Elrond to his own quarters and his thoughts, Llyniel to hers, that she may write to her father, and Glorfindel – Glorfindel had left in search of Haldir, for they, too, had much to 'catch up on,' albeit they had already had three weeks in which to do so.

And so it was that Legolas strolled away from the inhabited areas of Lorien, slowly opening his mind to their voices – not too much, not yet, not until he was settled and safe, for once he began, he would be vulnerable, indeed he wondered if he should take a guard with him. He quickly decided against it and continued his walk, until he wandered into a shady glade, where a particularly large specimen stood tall and proud, yet surprisingly, totally silent amidst the sounds of its kin.

He stood at a prudent distance from the massive tree – a sentinel, perhaps even a mother, mused Legolas, watching it as he unclasped his tunic and loosened his white shirt, shirking out of it and then sliding off his boots. Next, he took off his circlet and freed the braid that held his hair back, shaking his head to loosen it until he felt it hang around him – for he felt the need to shed himself of everything, even his leggings, yet that was probably not a good idea, he realized, finally deciding to leave them on.

Kneeling, he rested his hands upon his thighs, breathed deeply and cleared his mind, his head tilting back and his eyes falling upon the waxing gibbous moon that illuminated his creamy white face … a cool breeze caressed his naked chest, played with the tips of his long hair and he could smell the rich earth and the green foliage of trees and bushes, everything that surrounded him smelt of woody, earthy peat, mixed with the exotic aromas of jasmine and honeysuckle. His senses were changing, first smell, then hearing, even before his ears registered that disconcerting noise that heralded the start of his journey - and he was out of himself. He heard what most others could not – the high-pitched squeal of plant and bush, the low creaking hum of the trees, sounds that went far beyond the normal capabilities of elven hearing – the wild chattering of the smaller forest animals, the buzz and drone, click and scrape of late summer insects, all came together into that now familiar symphony of nature, one which told him things, spoke to him. It was a journal, almost, of recent events, of fears and hopes but not individually but collectively, as if each and every piece of nature were capable of understanding the other, falling into harmony the one with the other without knowing how. It was almost as if they were one and the same entity – different components of the same being, mused Legolas.

He was moving then, even though his body remained kneeling before the sentinel. Floating towards the enormous trunk, he laid a gentle palm upon the rough, outer skin of protection, and then opened his eyes for the first time since his disjunction.

He gasped in awe and wonder, for there, under his hand, was a column of multi-colored light. Veins of blue, violet, green and white intertwined with each other, spiraling upwards and then out into the branches and then twigs – arteries pulsing with life, power and energy that reached up into the sky, a fainter trace of its multi-colored hues snaking up and out, everywhere, beyond the physical confines of the tree. He wondered then, at these colours, for they were the colours of his eyes. Green mostly, but sometimes blue, sometimes violet… he had thought it a whim of Yavanna, yet now he knew these colours represented different energies, which he could not say. He still had so much to learn, he mused in starry eyed- wonder, the lights catching on his own green orbs, and setting them to sparkling blue, violet and green.

He poked experimentally at the place where the bark had been, for it was now a kind of transparent covering – like skin, he thought. It was soft and pliable, and the veins of colour pulsed and flexed under his probing fingers. Stepping back a little, he looked up, inspecting the rest of the tree, and then realized that he could elevate himself in this place if he so wished, no need to strain his eyes. And so he moved upwards, caressing branches and twigs, green leaves pulsing with white light that sparkled as his hand brushed over them. A tear sprang to the Forest Lord's eye, for it was beauty of a kind he had never experienced, save when he looked into the ancient depths of Glorfindel's eyes.

Taking himself back down to solid ground, he knelt once more and nudged the sentinel, inviting it to communicate with him, for he now knew that this one was a leader, a mother – it would speak for them all.

He knew himself honored then, as its voice and its thoughts seeped into his own, receptive mind, which then translated into words…

Its voice was not deep, booming or grinding as he had imagined it would be, but soft, boyish, he fancied, neither male nor female, and as the communication progressed, his scalp began to tingle so much it was almost an unbearable itch, for the power – the energy that this mother possessed was next to no other he had ever met. He knew that his hair would be dancing around him now, and he prayed that no one would come across him, for if they did, they would surely run – petrified at the sight, and if they did not chop his head off, believing him an agent of evil, he could count himself lucky.

His mind told him the sentinel wished him to touch it with both hands, and so he propelled his other self forward, and pressed both palms to either side of the shining trunk. No sooner had he done so, and a jolt of pure energy shot through his body so that he stiffened and jerked violently and he called out – his cry followed by an echo – his physical self, he thought, struggling to control his breathing and control the power now flowing freely through him, binding him in some very physical way with the natural world, rooting him to it.

The rush of thoughts and emotions was overwhelming, and Legolas was forced to close his eyes and steady himself, calm his racing pulse and discipline himself to not hear it all at once, but sift through it more slowly.

Welcome, love, hope, fear, support, fealty, apprehension, pity, - _warning_…

He jerked once more as his wandering spirit prematurely slammed back into his physical body, still kneeling before the sentinel, hair spread out around him as it undulated in the non-existent breeze, the warmth of another body at his side.

Opening his eyes slowly, he focused on the tupid canopy high above him, realizing only then that he was leaning back, his head raised upwards and his chest heaving for breath. Bringing his head down, he turned to the one that now accompanied him, remaining silent and still as she gasped and her eyes bulged, one hand rising to cover her gaping mouth.

"Forgive me," she whispered, "for I meant only to warn you – elves approach," she said unsteadily, her eyes filling with moisture as they darted from one side of his face to another, and then slowly lowered her hand from her quivering mouth.

Legolas continued to look at her, wondering for a moment what it was she had seen, before finally looking to the floor and heaving a mighty gasp – his hair slowly lowering itself until it settled passively upon his back and chest, covering a part of his nudity.

Raising his head once more, his eyes were now the vibrant green that Galadriel had come to know, not the shining, luminescent glow she had seen just moments before. Indeed she had caught him in what she could only guess had been a pivotal moment in his communion, a connection she had broken, it seemed.

"Legolas… truly, I am sorry – it seems in my desire to warn you, I have done more harm than good…" she trailed off, for she felt uncomfortable, as a trespasser on two lovers, entwined in passion.

"I…," Legolas faltered, before trying once more. "I thank you, then, for you had my best intentions in mind," he said, for it was true; the physical sensation of returning forcefully, rather than voluntarily, had been most uncomfortable and had left his mind reeling and his body struggling for mastery, suddenly remembering that first time it had happened in the presence of Aiwendil.

As his body finally relaxed itself, he smoothed his hands over his hair somewhat self-consciously, and then realized that his chest was bare and he was in the presence of the Lady of Light. In the Greenwood, this would never be an issue, but to the more conservative Noldor, it would be – unseemly.

Reaching for his white shirt, he realized that Galadriel already held it in her hands. She must have seen his scar then, he thought to himself, his arm moving subtly over the area in a vain attempt to hide it from her.

He felt a soft hand alight against his chest then and he froze.

"Legolas – do not shy away from my touch, or my eyes – _this_…" she said meaningfully in her rich, deep voice, "was acquired in the defense of your land, your people, 'tis not a blight, but a trophy you should wear with pride, for as long as it lingers," she said, her hand now laying flat over the horrific scar, before it slowly moved away and she looked at him squarely, face to face, on the same level, lord to lady, Silvan prince to Noldorin princess.

"Why do you shield your mind from me, Forest Lord?" she asked almost wistfully, watching as he slipped on his shirt.

"Because I am unsure of what you seek," he said simply.

"I seek only to allay my own doubts, see beyond that which you _choose _to reveal, see what strength of mind you possess."

"Can you not simply _ask_, rather than probe my mind?" he asked, somewhat perplexed.

"Legolas," she smiled then, for a small victory was coming her way. "What you have just done, I cannot do, yet I understand the nature of it. When you communicate in that world you enter, you feel, see, hear and communicate in such a way that the emotions are enhanced tenfold. 'Tis the same for me when I look into a mind, for I too, journey elsewhere and I _see_ – by reading you, I can understand you better than you could ever express to me with words," she said, her eyes boring into Legolas', his nascent understanding showing clearly in the beautiful, somewhat slanted eyes.

"And that hinders you in your talks with Imladris, you do not trust me because I have blocked you?"

"Yes, that is exactly so, yet perhaps it is not so clear cut – but it is certainly an important impediment for me."

Legolas considered for a moment, looking back at the Lady of Light with a new perspective. He realized that she depended much on her natural abilities, that without them she was wary. He was sure there was more to it, but this – he had not considered.

"Will you walk with me, Forest Lord?" she asked softly, to which Legolas acceded with a nod.

…..

Later that night, Legolas strolled back towards the talan he shared with Glorfindel. There was no rush, however, for his mind was still whirling from the events of the last few hours. His interrupted communion with the Mellryn and then his encounter with Galadriel – it had been magical, transcendental, thought-provoking – sleep seemed a physical impossibility right now, and so he slowly made his way back, holding his hands out to stroke over the barks and branches of the trees he passed, feeling their caress, hearing their voices, his mind half in one world and half in the other…

"Look at him.." said a voice dripping with disdain and disgust, "he roams half naked, his hair too long for a male, worn loose like a virginal maiden…"

Snorts of barely contained laughter followed the comments, before they began once more and Legolas began to turn towards the source.

"A _warrior_, they say – yet to me he seems whimsical and carefree – soft and coddled under Thranduil's stolen robes of kingship…"

The amused snorts turned into harsh intakes of breath as Legolas finally faced his antagonists.

Hinnor was sneering most viciously, his silver hair glinting in the moonlight as two friends appeared from behind him, both highly amused by their friend's eloquence, bloated wine skins in their unsteady hands.

"Come, Hinnor," began Gellam, "wine and maids await, do not waste your time on Silvan braggarts," he exclaimed, emboldened by his friend's uncontested insults and garnering the tittering laugh of the three females that accompanied them a little way behind, their eyes lit up in morbid delight as they sipped on the wine and watched the males antanonize Thranduil's undoubtedly gorgeous son.

"Nay, wait, Gellam, for it amuses me to see this one, frolicking amidst the trees – typical Wood-elves, for they have no care for the woes of the world, only for their _trees_ – I would bet he has never even seen a Mallorn before – what kind of tree elf does that make you, _Forest Lord_?" spat Hinnor, his mouth twisting in hatred, his eyes doing justice to his name – 'Fire Eyes' indeed.

"He speaks not, Theria," continued Hinnor, bringing his other companion into his game, "perhaps he is _deaf_," he mused in mock confusion as the three stepped towards Legolas, who had not moved at all. His face was disconcertingly passive, unreadable, yet any who knew him would have noticed the set of his muscles beneath his half-open shirt, the way his body rested on the balls of his feet, the soft rustling of the trees - these were warning signs that went unheaded by the half-inebriated elves.

"We said – are you deaf? – _woodelf_," spat Hinnor, his face now only inches from Legolas' stony countenance, until his fiery eyes suddenly bulged and the veins in his neck puffed up, causing his face to congest into a startling colour of purple.

At first, Gellam and Theria had not quite digested what had happened, until Hinnor groaned painfully and doubled over, his knees buckling as he sank to the ground in mysery, his balls sending jolts of agony shooting through his entire body.

"How dare you attack a warrior of Lothlorien!" cried Theria, walking forward menacingly with Gellam at his side, all sense of restraint gone as the maidens behind futilely grabbed at their sleeves to stop any further escalation of what was already a political incident. "Now, _we_ will show you the price of your actions…" said Theria, only a little unnerved that Thranduil's son simply stared at them as if they had lost their minds, and the soft rustling of leaves became just a little louder …


	4. Synergy

Chapter three: synergy

Today, Galdithion would be released from the healing talan, although confined for the next week, free of duty in order to recuperate his strength. As such, Legolas sat at the breakfast table in the company of Elladan and Glorfindel, while Elrond sat next to the Lord and Lady, immersed in some such discussion that would soon be transferred to the council chamber, and Glorfindel would accompany them. The very thought of yet another fruitless day of gesturing and rhetoric was undoubtedly the cause of his lover's sour expression. Indeed the whole trip had been nothing but a ruinous failure so far. The animosity of the Noldor and indeed even some of the Sindar was starting to grate on his nerves. He had no intention of imposing his regal self and ruling as high king if they did not want him to – in fact the whole thing was simply – bothersome, embarrassing, even. And when he thought of his momentary loss of composure last night when he had been waylaid by three Noldorin warriors, albeit off-duty – he simply could not recognize himself anymore. One _Hinnor,_ had insulted his father most viciously, and _that_ he had not been able to tolerate, loosing an impetuous kick to the idiot's groin that had felt like glory to Legolas, and utter hell to Hinnor.

Whatever the case, he was bound to the dictates of the Valar, indeed he would never assume to defy them – theirs was the road he traversed and there was simply no room for his own wishes, a circumstance he had been intimately familiar with since the day he had come of age. Indeed it seemed to Legolas that the only things he himself had been able to decide on, were his clothes – and his lovers.

Thus confirming to himself that there was nothing he could do about it, he resolved to control himself and keep his temper in check, one which had admittedly, become surprisingly short and rebellious as of late.

Taking his mind off the uncomfortable path it had chosen to wander, he looked around the hall for some other stimulus on which to concentrate as he ate. He had noticed that the hall was, once more, particularly full – given how early it was, and the elves seemed to be in particularly high spirits, for there was much laughter, amused snorting and hushed snickering. Indeed Elladan too, had realized the strange whisperings, and was compelled to cast his eyes about the hall continuously, in search of the source of humour, or rumour, or indeed both as it seemed to him.

Glorfindel signaled to Haldir as he entered the brimming hall, suddenly taken aback by the sheer numbers of eager breakfasters this morning, and, the inappropriateness of their attire. Approaching the table, he nodded politely to all as he sat for his own morning meal, a wide smile suddenly blossoming on his otherwise serene countenance as his mind began to register the low hum of scandal and morbid anticipation. The story had transcended in a flash, it seemed, for the whole of Caras Galadhon was immersed in frivolous gayety – at the expense of three well-known warriors, famous for their arrogance and their love of wine and easy lovers.

"Commander Haldir, what is going on? Your people have been snickering all morning," said Glorfindel as he ate, sparing him a sideways glance.

"Ah, yes, that would be on account of three of our – _Noldorin_ warriors…"

"And...," prompted Elladan, eager for the tale.

"Well," he began, breaking a piece of bread and then smiling once more, his teeth appearing behind his lips and his face crinkling endearingly, his entire expression telling those that watched him, that he was debating whether to eat the bread or wait, lest he choke on it.

"They, ah, had a little too much to drink, I believe. They, ah, were found in the early hours, eh, hanging from the branches of a particularly large mallorn, their wine skins tied to their boots and their hair in – uh… disarray….," the sentence had become progressively faster as he fought to get the words out, but he could go no further for he doubled over, rested his forehead on the table and began to laugh uncontrollably, his shoulders jerking wildly in hilarity – indeed any who had not heard the words could well guess the source of it. Of course the sight of their venerable, severe commander laughing helplessly before the visiting lords was enough to break their considerable self-control, and the entire room was now roaring in laughter.

Elladan and Glorfindel chuckled merrily at what they believed had been a drunken escapade by a few of the warriors, remembering times when they too, had gotten themselves into more than a few binds with the lads. Even Legolas laughed along with them, for it lifted his heart to see this, jolly, carefree side to Lothlorien society, one which thus far had proved to be more than a little skeptical and wary of his presence, if not curt, and sometimes downright rude.

Turning his head towards the head of the table, he caught Galadriel's eye as she observed him in turn, an almost imperceptible smile on her face, one blonde eyebrow arched in question. Legolas held her gaze for a moment, before lifting his own, compelling her to confront him if she so dared – she did not, returning to her conversation with Elrond as the noise finally began to die down.

Haldir, seemingly recovered from his momentary breakdown, and ever astute, was staring at Legolas. "My Lord, do you know anything about this?" he asked softly, only for the four friends, yet his eyes bored into Legolas', waiting for an answer.

"All I can say, Commander, is that I did not _do_ it," he said equally softly, yet meaningfully. Glorfindel and Elladan were struck dumb, for they knew Legolas well enough to know that he had not indeed _done _it, but _ordered_ it perhaps – something had happened out there, and Legolas had needed to defend himself.

Haldir did not quite know what to say. He knew Legolas had been involved – somehow, but was unsure of whether pursuing the matter would be in any way beneficial, and so he kept quiet, until Glorfindel spoke.

"Haldir, I must insist on that guard for Lord Legolas."

"I have arranged it, Lord Glorfindel. Lord Legolas wishes to accompany me today to the barracks while you are in council – I will introduce him there, and meanwhile, I personally, will vouch for his safety," he said forcefully, for Haldir was beginning to understand something of what had happened, and it vexed him that his own warriors had been involved in what must have been an antagonizing situation. The justice dealt to them, however, had been both harsh and – _memorable_, for although he had not disclosed the details, his warriors had been thoroughly trussed up, not tied but trapped within the restraining branches and twigs of the trees – it would take them days to be able to drag a comb through their hair once more, he mused, and then smiled once more. All traces of mirth suddenly left him though, when an innocent thought popped into his mind. How could Legolas possibly have performed such a feat on his own?

…

Elrond had it all worked out. He would start with the news which, as yet, he had revealed to no one, for just yesterday, he had received a most interesting letter from Gildor, forwarded from Elrohir in Imladris, announcing his impending arrival in Lothlorien and his desire to take urgent council with Elrond.

Elrond sighed deeply, the weight of Gildor's soul steeling his breath, as it almost always did. He had always been a most severe elf – gruff and proud, little given to observing protocol and the finer aspects of elven society. The letter, however, had surprised Elrond, for it was almost – melancholy, as if that noble warrior of bygone ages had – fizzled out, lost his spark, his will.

The Peredhel himself had made that journey across the sea, just like so many of the Noldor, yet he had never felt guilty, for he had had no choice, banished as his people were. Gildor, however, had been amongst that first wave of Noldor – those who had triggered that banishment, wreaking havoc and swearing vengeance for the loss of the one they most revered, Gildor's own grandfather - however much that had gone unacknowledged. They had been the instigators and now, Gildor and his followers would not return, could not – for although the powers had long since forgiven them for their travesty, there seemed to be a lingering cloud of shame, one that made them unworthy in their own minds, impeded their return in every way that mattered to the Noldorin warriors of old, for their code of ethics was severe and unbending – honour and service – above all else, even to ruin.

In fact, Elrond rather suspected that Galadriel felt the same, although she was far too proud to admit to that. Yet Elrond had captured a fleeting yet lingering sense of regret in her eyes, in her words – yes, Galadriel would sail, but not before she had served her purpose - her hidden penance, almost - one she was, perhaps, unaware of.

Atonement … it was _then_, that Elrond's heart accelerated and his eyes lit up in sudden acknowledgement of this, unique opportunity. Should Elrond gain Gildor's participation in their plans, give him and his elves a worthy cause, one devised by the Valar themselves, surely that would lift the weight of guilt, make them worthy once more in their own hearts. Gildor did not wish to acknowledge a lord and swear allegiance – he had refused to do so with Elrond, but to bow to the Valar, yes – he would surely do that, and Legolas was Yavanna's protégé. Yes, if he were to follow anyone at all on Middle-earth, it would be the Forest Lord, for thus would Gildor serve the Valar, and return home victorious, in pride and acknowledged deed.

As for Galadriel, she too, had rejected the rule of the Valar, in search of her own realm – could she too, be persuaded to follow him? Proclaim him and thus lift the burden of guilt?

Elrond swiveled on his heels in a whirlwind of silk and velvet, bound for the council chambers, his secret weapon tucked safely away in his agile mind, leaving the letter from Eriador to sit innocently upon his desk.

_Lord Elrond,_

_Protocol would have me start this letter with pleasantries, yet I have none to give, for I am but a practical elf, this you know._

_Enemy activity is increasing, with both orcs and humans closing in on the good folk of Eriador. We ourselves have already been waylaid on more occasions than during the whole of last year._

_You know of our desire to sail – and yet we wander, linger for what we do not truly know, yet widely suspect. We yearn to return home, and yet with what claim? For we rejected the peace of the Valar for a life in which we could rule our own lands, possess our own power and authority. With what dignity and worth should we present ourselves before our lords, forgiven though we are? _

_And yet necessity may soon drive us to your home, in search of safety. We would continue to patrol these lands for we would not forsake these people whom we consider brothers, but would do so with Imladris as our home, and not the wilds._

_I will visit shortly, my Lord. Then perhaps you will take council with me._

_May Elbereth protect and favor you and your family._

_Gildor Inglorion_

….

"My Lady," he began, standing and walking to the centre with purpose. "I have received a missive from one that will soon arrive in these your lands. Gildor Inglorion will be here within the next two weeks," he finished, his eyes fixed on those of Galadriel, who still sat. Her face was still stone, not a flicker of the eyes or a twitch of the lips. 'Incredible,' thought Elrond, for she had honed this skill of masking her emotions to perfection. He knew she would have reacted, for Inglorion was her half-brother, one she had never publically acclaimed, yet named as kin, albeit somewhat flippantly.

"He has news from Eriador and I would ask that he take council with us on this matter that has brought Imladris to Lorien – I believe he will have much to say on the matter – if the Lady allows, of course."

The five Lorien councilors had a rather sickly look to their otherwise serene facades, for the matter of Gildor was somewhat taboo, never once mentioned in their halls lest it be in hushed whispers. There were some who thought this a pity, for a son of Finarfin was to be acclaimed for what he was, and yet what _was_ he? For some, he was just that, and yet for many, he was the bastard son of a great king, condemned to half measures – half recognized, half respected, half brother…

There were others, however, who denied Gildor's parentage all together, claiming he was no son of Inglor, rejecting him completely from high society, yet never willing to be drawn into debate on the matter. He was indeed an uncomfortable thorn in their otherwise perfectly moral society, one that most simply chose to ignore, for ignorance was simple, and reasoning was always – tiresome.

Thus had Elrond sown the seed of his plan, yet before he could launch into his morning speech and press his advantage, Galadriel, quite unexpectedly, stood and approached Elrond in the centre. All eyes were riveted on the two rulers who now stood face to face – one serene, the other puzzled. This was not planned, was not the strategy the lady had agreed upon with her advisors the previous afternoon – she had something to say, something her politicians were just as ignorant of as Elrond and his party.

The silence was absolute, for even the trees had ceased their rustling and creaking.

"I talked long with Lord Legolas last night, a casual meeting that proved most insightful, and instrumental in what I must tell you today…" she paused, ensuring she had their complete and utmost attention – she did, for Glorfindel stood slowly, and Elladan leant forward as if pulled by some invisible force. Llyniel, however, moved not, except for her eyes which had narrowed, wondering if Legolas had done something that perhaps he oughtn't have… Elrond, however, stood scowling in confusion, for Legolas had said nothing of this.

"I have seen the battle in his soul, have seen his purpose so clearly present in his mind. I have seen the sacrifice on his body, and the goodness in his heart, yet more than this, he _trusted_ me."

No one dared to speak, for Galadriel was, incredibly, changing her mind. Whatever had happened last night in the woods, had been enough to convince her of something – but _what_, exactly?

"I wonder then, if this thing can truly be done. To bring our nations together into one, universal militia, and then ally itself with the world of men – and _dwarves_," she emphasized, before continuing, her voice now low, soft, whimsical almost … "and yet we must try, I believe."

….

Elladan walked briskly to the healing talan, a beaming Arwen at his side, skipping almost, for they were half-way there – their grandmother had finally conceded to the formation of the new army, with Legolas at the fore – there was still no change on the issue of kingship, but it _would_ come, Elladan was sure of it, just as Arwen had always been, ever since the two had met in the gardens of Imladris.

Bursting effusively into Galdithion's room, they found the guard already half-dressed, unwilling to wait any longer now that he had been given permission to leave. Looking up at Elladan as he crossed to sit beside him, Galdithion asked his silent question.

"The army, Gal, it is finally happening – she has agreed to it!"

"And?"

"And … no more – for the moment, at least. Something happened, Gal, something last night, a chance meeting of sorts with the lady and Legolas, and I tell you whatever happened, she has been turned. Glorfindel and Elrond have gone in search of him, for he does not yet know."

"He will be relieved, I know – pleased I cannot say, but relieved, definitely. 'Tis good news for us all, Elladan."

"I know it, and we will talk long about it at dinner I assume. Now, let us help you with this, for we are going straight to our quarters, and _you,_ are confined until mealtime!"

An incredulous snort was all Elladan received in the way of an answer, and so the three left the talan slowly, Elladan silently alert lest his lover falter, and Galdithion overjoyed as Arwen slipped her hand into his, the smells of herbs, resins, oils and creams finally began to dissipate, replaced by the sweet aromas of fresh green leaves and feminine perfume. He filled his lungs with it and smiled in joy, and then it faltered a little when his stomach lurched, and he realized that soon, Elladan would take up his place at Legolas' side, and if his friend were to be crowned, Elladan, would be his herald, thus bound for the front lines of any and all conflicts, just as he himself would be.

…

Haldir was dressed as his position dictated, commander of the Galadhrim that he was. His long grey tunic lapped around his black-clad knees and calves, revealing a pair of rather exquisite boots that Legolas had earlier been admiring. A black sash was wrapped around his trim waist, black, and not blue or green as most other warriors wore. Legolas himself was dressed for court, for it was not his intention to participate in the warrior's activities today – only to watch, and to learn.

During the twenty minutes it had taken them to walk to the training grounds, Legolas had asked a whole array of questions regarding the Lothlorien troops: their numbers, military organization, patrols, training and the likes, and of course, the meaning of their sashes, the colours denominating each warriors level of skill. Haldir had thrown himself into Legolas' briefing with much enthusiasm, explaining the ins and outs of their operations, the incursions they suffered on their western borders, the nature and number of their enemies. They were still immersed in the conversation as they stepped out onto the field where the Galadhrim were already sparring and shooting, that is, until they caught sight of the two commanders and the din rippled into silence.

It took but a peeved stare from Haldir for activity to return, and the clattering of swords and the shouting of warriors resumed, albeit their attention was only half on their opponents, for the Forest Lord had finally appeared on the training grounds.

"Lord Legolas," began Haldir, reverting to formality, "I have pre-selected a small number of warriors I know will guard you well – I will leave the final election to you, however, if you will?" he gestured, as four warriors lined up before them, standing to attention.

Not surprisingly, they were all, apparently, Silvan, relatively tall, their hair a deep chestnut or dark blond, yet as Legolas approached and took a closer look, one warrior drew his attention immediately, for his sash was black, and he seemed older than the others. His eyes shone bright and his jaw was set in determination. He seemed to Legolas, to be – pleading almost, and as he came face to face with him, the warrior's eyes widened, holding Legolas' stare as best he could.

"Where are you from, warrior?" asked Legolas neutrally.

"Doriath, my Lord."

Now it was Legolas' turn to falter, for just a second, for he had not expected that, Sindarin then.

"Tell me, then, why you seem - _surprised_."

"My Lord, forgive me but – you are so much like my Liege Lord Oropher," he said, somewhat unsteadily.

"You knew my grandfather?" asked Legolas, as his head tipped slightly to the side in interest and anticipation of what the warrior would say.

"Aye, my Lord," he smiled, his eyes slipping to the side in memory for a moment before returning to the vibrant green orbs of this Silvan prince.

"King Oropher was my king, and – my friend for many, many years.

"Why did you leave the Greenwood?"

"When he fell, I helped to carry him home, and yet when we arrived, it felt like home no more. I left in sorrow, bound for new lands, away from all those memories, all those faces that …"

"You were close, then," interrupted Legolas softly, half turning towards Haldir and nodding. He had made his choice – this one would be loyal, for the love in his eyes for his grandfather was plain to see, as was his grief…

"What is your name and rank, warrior?"

"Lieutenant Doronhal, my Lord."

"Doronhal," repeated Legolas, searching the warrior's expressive eyes, and his own mind, for the name was familiar to him. "Accompany me," was all he said, turning to join Haldir once more, a Sindarin guard now at his shoulder.

Haldir and Legolas spent the rest of the morning moving from group to group, staying to watch their training and commenting on style and technique. Legolas kept his hands behind his back, not once taking up a weapon or even demonstrating his own explanations, his trained eyes analyzing each move, each stance, each warrior.

His presence had the immediate effect of putting each and every warrior on alert, all of them eager to show the Forest Lord their capabilities, although not all of them for altruistic reasons. True the Silvan warriors were delighted with his presence and his interest in their training, but many of the Noldor, and even some of the Sindar, seemed to want to show Legolas that he was not the only one that was grand master with the blades.

It was then, that it struck Legolas.

"Commander Haldir, I have not seen Avorn, Hinnor, Gellam or Theria…" he trailed off, knowing that Haldir would understand his question.

"Indeed you have not, my Lord. Each of them, for various reasons, has been assigned to duties far from the city centre. They will join the patrols once more in a few weeks."

"Ah, I see."

"Yes, indeed…"

A shout went up from the fences then, for the lords were approaching, and so the two commanders walked back to the sidelines with Doronhal sanding tall and proud behind the grandson of one he had once revered, one he would have given his own life for, indeed _should_ have. Perhaps now, there would be some semblance of peace for the tormented guard who had failed to preserve the life of his beloved lord, upon the bloody plains of the Dagorlad.

….

News of the creation of a new army spread fast. It had been publicly announced in the council chambers and in the markets and squares. Missives had been dispatched to Imladris, Mithlond and the Greenwood, and expectation was high, for now was the time of the soldier, they said, the return of the warriors of old.

Throughout the following weeks, Legolas divided his time between planning and liaising with Glorfindel and Elladan, and familiarizing himself with the Galadhrim and their military structure. There was the matter of finding a suitable site for their headquarters, and the selection of their officers, generals chosen from each of the Elven realms.

The three warriors also resumed their own training, working primarily with their blades, except for Legolas, who would not renounce his mandatory hour on the archery ranges. Elladan was well atoned to Legolas' style of fighting after his year with The Company in the dangerous southern region of the Greenwood. As for Glorfindel, it did not take him long to get the gist of it, especially because Legolas had taken many techniques from the Gondolindrim. It was the acrobatics that would take him longer to perfect, indeed not even Elladan was capable of Legolas' peerless prowess, *Hwindohtar, indeed, he mused.

Every day, the three would work together, sometimes with Galdithion and Doronhal, who had readily joined these elite warriors, having fallen into an easy routine with Legolas and his perennial companions, delighted at this his new task of guarding the Forest Lord. Slowly but surely, his heavy expression lifted, just like his heart, for life had meaning once more, and the bitter taste of guilt was beginning to turn into the sweeter aroma of well-executed duty. Indeed Galdithion had taken it upon himself to instruct the Sindar on the Greenwood's protocol for personal guards. Doronhal had been just that to Oropher, but things had changed a lot since those times, as the new guard was just beginning to realize.

Indeed, the Galadhrim watched, talked and gossiped, until finally, the legend was born, and the rumors began – for they spoke of a new concept, a militia that knew no frontiers, no race, one that would herald a new style and perspective that would take the warrior's office back to the splendor of bygone ages. They also spoke of one that was unbeatable, invincible, Beleg returned, or so some had proclaimed somewhat outrageously.

News of the extraordinary events unfolding in Lothlorien reached Mithlond, Imladris, the Greenwood, and even Rohan, where human travelers had heard rumour of a new Elven army – unbeatable and deadly, commanded by the witch queen herself.

Yet it was not only the warriors that wrote and spread the word, for the lords of Arda were deep in heated discussion over the return of a high king. Elrond had written to Cirdan and Thranduil, keeping them abreast of the summit, and of Galadriel's reticence to the return of an elven king, yet it had precisely been the Elven King's answer that had surprised him.

Elrond now sat at his table, rummaging through the piles of parchments that lay there, searching for the letter that had arrived not so long ago.

_Lord Elrond Earendilion, Master Healer_

_It is with great joy that I read your last letter, my Lord, one that I have repeated to our people, avid of news of their prince and commander. They sing your praises, my Lord; strange, is it not, that we should have come so far, in so little time? Yet glad of it I am, for we have made alliances, albeit they are still nascent._

_Perhaps we will meet soon, and you and I may lay our ghosts to rest in peace at last. Time is now of the essence - there is something in the trees, in their very life force that tells me this – whatever is to happen will come soon, and I would have you and I as friends, not enemies._

_*I spoke to Healer Balentar before his departure to you realm, and he did confess to me his breakthrough. However, I agreed to wait until you had made it official, before making a public announcement. I shall do so now that you have confirmed it. My people will cry – grieve for those that were lost to that, vilest of abominations that infests our forests, and then they will rejoice. You, my Lord, will not be the only one whose praises will be sung under the green boughs of the Greenwood, for Balentar has earned their deepest respect, just as your own son Lord Elladan did, for acts of extraordinary skill and bravery during his ride with The Company._

_Would that fate saw fit to provide us with the opportunity to meet, for I would speak long with you, on many things. _

_May Yavanna preserve you in grace and joy._

_King Thranduil Oropherion_

Thranduil had not left his realm since Dagorlad. Indeed Elrond remembered him as a young king, the proud father of his first and only heir, the last time he had seen him, now over two thousand years ago. Many had never even seen him, even Celeborn, kinsman though he was, had not seen him since he was a child sat on Oropher's lap. Was it possible that Thranduil was even contemplating leaving the Greenwood and revealing himself? Nay, Elrond could not believe it, not until he saw it with his own, disbelieving eyes.

His own answer had been conciliatory in itself, for Thranduil was right. For what was to come, they needed alliance.

_King Thranduil of the Greenwood_

_I was most honored by your words of praise, my Lord. I can only say that I and my people are equally overjoyed at this most celebrated turn of events. There is still a difficult path before him, but I know in my heart that he will walk it, for he is strong and determined._

_We are now immersed in our efforts to proclaim Legolas as High King, that he may unite us all against our common enemy in that which is to come. I admit to being somewhat ignorant of what you are aware of – or indeed what you are not. As such, I would willingly meet with you to discuss such matters, and, as you so fittingly say, lay our ghosts to rest._

_I remain in Lothlorien, deep in negotiations with the Lady – needless to say that I will keep you informed of our negotiations, as I am sure Lord Legolas already does. Yet were you to come personally, you could perhaps help to persuade our Lady of Light as to the rightness of our propositions..._

_May the light of Earendil guide you on your noble path, fair king._

_Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris_

…..

He breathed deeply, the scent of his lover filling his senses, dizzying him as it always did, for it made him want to hold him, crush his body against his own, cling to him, love him… Opening his eyes, he looked down upon the one that never ceased to stir his soul – how could he not. He lay there, sprawled - strangely almost, upon the crisp white sheets, his hair trailing down to the floor beside the bed, for he had not plaited it the night before. The naked chest accelerated his own heart beat, pumping blood to that part of him that would worship his lover, as soon as he was given the chance.

The marred flesh under his left breast stood out starkly, for it was the only element that was out of place – the rest was pure perfection, and Glorfindel slowly bent, and took Legolas' lips in a soft kiss that slowly revealed the green orbs under the perfect, almond-shaped eyelids, until they stared back at him – full of love and adoration, desperate somehow, almost as if this would be their last day together.

"I love you," the beautiful face whispered reverently, and Glorfindel melted into a river of burning desire that flowed over his lover's body, drowning them both in desperate bliss, his hands questing over the silken hardness, until he pushed himself home and floated skywards into blessed paradise.

TBC

*Hwindohtar (Whirling Warrior, often shortened to Hwindo) is Legolas' warrior name in The Company, from the story Arcane Land.

*This is a reference to Arcane Land, in which the Imladrian healer Balentar finds a cure for Red Fang poisoning, after the death of Lindohtar (Bard Warrior) of The Company.


	5. Fleeting Perfection

Chapter warnings: MMM explicit sub/dom . Be warned!

**Horizon chapter 4: fleeting perfection**

A day of blessed rest had been proclaimed, and the raging, swirling mass of Silvan, Sindarin and Noldorin advisors, lords and courtesans made their plans – far away from the verbal battle ground of the council chambers. They hung up their rich velvet brocades, silks and jewels, and donned their more casual clothes of cotton, leather and suede; their hair was not so tightly braided, their faces no longer rigorously masked but open and bright, as carefree as they could be for ones that had lived so long, for eyes that had seen so many things.

Much had been decided upon, and the United Elven Army would soon become a reality. It had not been easy – not at all, for it had taken a chance meeting between Legolas and Galadriel to tip the balance that had not been swayed by politics. They were tired, their nerves frayed, yet their hearts a little lighter for the concord that had so far been reached. This day of rest would be well-used, stretched to its natural limits and to each elf's imagination.

Elladan would spend his day on the river with Galdithion, and Elrond, Glorfindel and Legolas had decided to spend theirs on a pleasant foray into the nearby countryside, in search of the magnificent views Haldir had assured them were to be had not too far to the East, a well-guarded area that had seen no enemy activity for many months.

As for Doronhal, he had offered to guard the trio of lords, an offer they had declined, for they would guard each other well enough – besides, for what _they_ had in mind, it would not do to have passive company. The Sindarin guard's momentary sense of worry, and perhaps even rejection, had been immediately alleviated when Legolas told him he would seek him out on their return. The truth of the matter was that Oropher's grandson was curious – intrigued even, for he suspected that king and guard had been lovers, or at the very least, that Doronhal had coveted what had not been freely offered. It was useless information to him on a practical level, yet he knew that the answer to that question would give him valuable insight into this enigmatic guard who spoke little, yet had already earned the Forest Lord's respect. Indeed, Doronhal was slowly emerging from a self-imposed shell of cold indifference, one Legolas imagined he had constructed as a means of defending himself from the overwhelming pity of others, or perhaps to mask his grief – but there was something else, something Legolas was determined to find out.

Arwen had arranged a day for the ladies, inviting Llyniel to join them, for they had been fast friends since they had first met at the Spring Festival in Imladris. Llyn for her part, was not one for _'ladies' days',_ for she found the conversation topics as soporific as they were frivolous, yet the politician in her told her that here was an opportunity to gauge Legolas' impact on this, somewhat rigid, society in which the Silvan were majority yet were ruled almost exclusively by the Noldor and the Sindar.

Llyniel wondered if the balance was being tipped in Legolas' favour. Was this unexpected animosity towards the Forest Lord changing in any way? Indeed this very question had compelled her to accept her friend's offer – in fact she rather thought that Arwen had the same objective, for Elrond's daughter was nothing if not shrewd under that façade of sweetness and utter elven loveliness. The Evenstar had a strangely unique friendship with the Forest Lord, and Llyn knew she would be capable of anything to see her friend sit upon the throne of Elvendom. This _ladies__'__ day_ was a confabulation, a fiction brought into being with one purpose – _politics,_ and Llyn was nothing if not passionate on that point.

And thus the day began, with Legolas, Glorfindel and Elrond dressed most casually for a trek through the woods, each carrying a backpack with the provisions they would need for the day, which included food, wine, and other – less obvious – items.

The day was warm and sunny, promising high temperatures for late September – the pools that Haldir had described to them would be a good spot to stop, eat, and…

Glorfindel's thoughts were interrupted when Elrond gasped, before bending down and cutting away a chunk of what seemed to his own untrained eyes to be nothing but a stubby, amorphous plant.

"Aloe!" exclaimed the Master Healer, obviously delighted at his find, holding up the plump, fibrous cutting before his eyes, squinting at it as he did so.

Glorfindel was amused, tickled even, with the lord's enthusiasm over his lucky find - the counterpoint of youthful enthusiasm and severe Noldorin lord both odd and endearing, serving to remind him once more of the many reasons why he loved this august elf so much.

"'Tis a natural lubrication – we use it for burns, skin reactions, some ladies even use it on their faces, claiming it has qualities that makes the skin glow healthier."

"Ummm… I can think of a few other uses for that too," contributed Legolas, a light smile on his face and an innocent look in his eye that contrasted starkly with his honed, battle-scarred body.

_Content edited in compliance with ffnet regulations. You can read the complete, unabridged version at .de, otherwise known as Faerie._

…

They had taken a boat down the river to a secluded spot in the opposite direction to which his father and his lovers had taken. After securing the small craft, Galdithion had proceeded to thoroughly ravish him, surprising Elladan in his intensity and strength; desperate almost, in his need.

Now lying against a willow upon the banks of the lazy tributary, Elladan cradled his lover's head against his chest, running his fingers through the fine chestnut locks rhythmically as he pondered on recent events.

"How is Doronhal progressing in his training with you?" asked Elladan, curious himself about the Sinda, for Legolas had not spoken of the guard's prior affiliation to Oropher – his past was, quite simply, an enigma to them both. Indeed Galdithion himself knew only that Doronhal was from Doriath, and had once served as personal guard to his own king's father.

"He is an avid student, most able as a warrior – strange though he is, Elladan, for I have caught him staring at Legolas on many occasions – and I confess that I am unsure of the intent behind his gazes. I know that Legolas is aware of this, and yet he says nothing, as if he understands the reason behind it – does that make sense?"

"Aye, it does. There is a story to be told, one I assume that our friend will regale us with, when he deems the time to be right."

Galdithion smiled lazily – "perhaps," he drawled, turning his head upwards to gaze at his Noldo. "Yet it is the Lady that perplexes me, Elladan – on this I pondered as we were attacked on our arrival. What is it that she sees, or feels, or imagines, that discredits our lord in her eyes?"

Elladan breathed deeply, for attempting to read his grandmother's intentions had always been – impossible. He was not old enough, experienced enough, skilled enough perhaps, to even attempt it. He could but reason out the facts and come to his own precarious conclusions.

"I can only guess at her reasons, Gal – trying to fathom her mind is like attempting to understand the incomprehensible meaning and magnitude of our existence. Yet should I venture a guess… well, I would say it is tied with her own allegiances or lack thereof…" he trailed off, trying to find the words that would best reflect what he was trying to say.

"What I mean, is – that she left the West, in search of lands to lord over – she rejected the lordship of the Valar and I wager, that for pride, she will not back down – this plan has been devised by the Valar, interpreted by elves and maia – how can she, in all conscience, follow the one _they_ chose for his task? It would be akin to recognizing her error…"

"You truly believe this to be the cause?" asked Galdithion, now sitting up and turning to face Elladan. "Simple – _pride_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, although I do not believe there is anything simple about it, Gal. My grandmother was born into the most noble family known to the Noldor – and that blood is so very potent, 'tis a cocktail of power and leadership, wisdom and courage, yet it is also the instigator of dominance – and stubborn pride. I do not say it is a matter of upbringing, albeit that would have accentuated these traits; I say it is a matter of the _blood_, as natural as it is unavoidable. Lady Galadriel is the way she is because it is in her _essence_ … to bow to others is simply – strange, foreign, _unnatural_," he finished, searching Galdithion's eyes for understanding. He found it, yet it was only partial.

"I understand, I think, and yet … such an essential part of wisdom is the ability to change, to ponder one's own strengths and weaknesses and strive to improve – every day. This, for me, is wisdom – not the knowledge that comes with it."

Elladan stared back at Galdithion, his mouth slightly open, surprise written plainly in his sparkling grey eyes.

"You are an able philosopher, my love – is that Silvan wisdom?" he asked with a naughty smirk upon his noble face.

"Oh aye - *we may be dangerous, but we are also wise!" smiled Gal in triumph, and Elladan chuckled, before he took his lover's lips in a searing kiss and pressed him to the ground, ready to show him a little _Noldorin_ wisdom.

…

Llyn's afternoon had not quite gone as she had expected it to. It had started off predictably enough, and she had gleaned some useable information. However, as time passed and the ladies maneuvered the conversation to more – _intimate_ subjects, they had demanded to know of Legolas' sexual tendencies. Did he take females? Did he have a favourite?

It was logical, of course, for if Arwen and Llyn used these courtly ladies as a means of inside information, they too, played the same game. Legolas may still be able to take a female consort, one that would reign as queen – it was an opportunity that neither their lordly parents nor their ambitious selves would miss out on.

Yet it had been that last, damned question of whether Legolas favoured anyone in particular that had turned her expression sour - just enough to give herself away to Arwen, who had caught her eye just at that moment. She _knew_ – and now, with the ladies gone and only the two friends sitting in the afternoon sun, Llyniel would confess her feelings, for she could not keep them from Arwen – she was simply too insightful.

"Llyniel – there is something about me that you may not know…" said Arwen softly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them since they had wandered away from the tea table, down to the mossy bank of the river where they now sat shoulder to shoulder, their feet soaking in the fresh waters.

Llyn turned her head to look at her friend, whose eyes searched the horizon before turning to meet her.

"We have many things in common, my friend, even those we choose to _love_…" said Arwen meaningfully.

Llyn looked into those spellbinding eyes, searching for the meaning behind her words, and then understanding slammed into her, blurting her next words most ungracefully.

"You _love_ him?"she asked incredulously. Aye she had known they were great friends, confidantes even – but that Arwen _loved _Legolas had come as a complete surprise to her.

"Since my eyes first descended on him – yes," she smiled. "How could I not, Llyn? He is considerate, generous, beautiful beyond reason - and so sexy!" giggled Arwen playfully, wrenching a chuckle even from Llyn, before she turned serious once more.

"I told him, Llyn – and although he does not return my feelings – _cannot_, even, it has brought us so much closer together. There can never be anything sexual between us because he does not want it. My father is just one of his many lovers, but it is more than that. He feels it is not meant to be, and is strangely tongue-tied when it comes to explaining why he believes that."

"And you, Arwen – what will you do?" asked Llyn, a wave of sadness washing over he for her friend's futile plight – one that reflected her own useless desires.

Arwen smiled in accepted defeat. "What _can_ I do? Nothing – be as close to him as I can. Follow him, care for him – give and take as much as I can. And you, my friend? What will _you_ do?" asked Arwen now, watching as Llyn turned her head away, waiting patiently when no answer was forthcoming.

"I do not know, Arwen. How can I tell him, after all these years as 'childhood friends', how can I tell him that that is not what I feel at all? That I envy Glorfindel with _everything I am_ – how can I tell him this when I already know he cannot reciprocate? And what would be the point? It would only cause him suffering."

"And yet – you _must_," replied Arwen in that deep, rich voice that projected a wisdom far beyond the youth of her angelic face – and Llyn found herself agreeing.

Arwen's eyes misted then, before they fixed themselves on something that Llyn could not see. She seemed to shine even brighter than she normally did, and then, that warm deep voice infused her senses once more, the prophetic words sending a shiver down her spine.

"It seems you and I are bonded in a friendship of sacrifice, for we both cannot have the one we love, and yet to do what we must, we are destined to walk this path at his side…

…

Later, Llyn had walked slowly back to her living quarters, her mind milling over Arwen's words… '_we are bonded in a friendship of sacrifice_…,' indeed she could understand that, yet it was the second part of her words that had her mind working furiously, '_to do what we must, we are destined to walk __this path__ at his side_… '

Entering the talan, her eyes strayed to a letter which sat prominently upon her work table, one she had been expecting for days, for its contents may well resolve her doubts, give her a sense of forward motion, something to work towards. Her stomach fluttered and her head felt light as she reached for the crisp parchment, her father's seal of office intact over the fold of paper – Lord Aradan, Chief Advisor to Kind Thranduil of the Greenwood.

_My dearest daughter_

_My pride for you fills me to the brim – well I have taught you, yet it is your own skill and intelligence that will drive you to great things. Mark my words, for you will, perhaps, be the first female to advise a great king…_

_I do confess that your words were no surprise to me, for long have I suspected your regard for Lord Legolas went far beyond the bounds of friendship and service. I wonder though, why you have never told him, for I have never known you to be cowed by a difficult situation – indeed you have always excelled in resolving them._

_Why, I wonder, have you kept this secret? Of this we will speak, child, for I rather think it has to do with your feelings of inferiority, or unworthiness._

_Politically, I will tell you that when a future lord, be he prince or king, is betrothed to a male, 'tis acceptable that a female consort be taken to rear children. 'Tis not common knowledge, for kings have been scarce for over two ages. Thus it is written, and our liege lord Thranduil is aware of this, for he demanded a conditional betrothal, as well you will remember – to this precisely, he was referring._

_My advice to you, child, is to seek him out and confess your feelings. However, do not mention this political question as yet – there will be time enough for such things. Give him time first, to assimilate your words and then, perhaps, the solution will come of its own accord._

_However, I must warn you, Llyniel. He cannot love you the way he does Glorfindel – you will never fully have his heart. Can you live with that? Can you give yourself utterly to one that can never reciprocate your love? 'Tis a harsh thing to accept, my daughter, for I rather believe you will hold to hope that he will come to return your feelings – and when you are proven wrong, what then? What will become of my heart-broken queen consort?_

_I ramble, and the truth may be that he will not accept your proposals – and I am unsure as to what result I would prefer – his rejection, or his acceptance and your lifetime of loneliness…_

She wrenched her eyes from the parchment, for she could no longer see the words, even had she wanted to, for they stood as towers of defiance – stone barriers that stood unbreakable before her, blocking her passage to happiness and that distant, almost unreachable glimmer of hope, of love returned.

…..

The light was slowly waning, setting a golden hue to the rustling trees around them. They had bathed in the pools and then climbed to the summit of a spectacular overhang, admiring the carpet of trees far below, and the distant mountains that marked the way North-west.

"Thank you," said Legolas softly as his eyes remained fixed on the trees below, his eyes reflecting a green light that neither of his companions could see. "Thank you for this moment of fleeting perfection," he smiled, turning to kiss first Glorfindel, and then Elrond.

Neither had words, for Legolas was right, it had been perfect, a perfection that was beginning to fade with the light, for it was time to return – to antagonism and court intrigue, to admiration and hatred, interest and indifference.

…

Later that evening, Legolas sought out Doronhal, just as he had promised he would. It wasn't that Doronhal had doubted he would keep to his promise, yet he was still surprised when the Forest Lord had found him in a quiet glade, not far from his assigned talan.

After walking quietly for a while, they came to settle upon a formation of rocks, a little way away from the main living quarters of their own sector. Legolas rummaged through his bag, pulling out a bottle and two sturdy goblets, much to the delight of Doronhal.

"May I?" asked the guard, watching as Legolas nodded his consent and surrendered the bottle.

"So – how did you spend your day, Doronhal?" asked Legolas casually, leaning back upon his elbow and watching his new guard.

"Well, it was – atypical, I would say, for I spent the time with friends of old, long neglected if truth be told," he answered as he poured the fine vintage and handed a glass to his lord, wondering when he would just get to the point. Of course if he were anything like his grandfather, that would be all too soon.

"How so?" asked Legolas, boldly, apparently surprised that Doronhal would have neglected his friends.

"It is a long and convoluted story, my Lord…"

"Just Legolas here, Doronhal, you are not on duty and there is no one here to judge you."

"A personal guard is always on duty … Legolas, yet I will do as you ask, however much it does not come naturally to me," he said, his deep, confident voice confirming his age and his years of wisdom.

"In the time since – since King Oropher passed, my manner and hence my life, simply – deteriorated. My self-esteem disappeared, for you see – I have always held myself responsible for his loss, personal guard that I was to our king." There, he had said it…

"Doronhal – you don't have to tell me if the memories are too painful …" replied Legolas, taking a long draught from his goblet as he held the guard's eyes.

Doronhal simply nodded, knowing Legolas well-enough at this point to understand that he could, indeed, stop if he felt his emotions taking control.

"It will do me good, or so my friends say – indeed this has always been a point of contention, for my guilt was eating away at my soul. They warned me, and all I could do was exteriorize my suffering with _them_ – how they stayed at my side I will never know, yet I am eternally grateful for it."

"'Tis often the case, is it not, that those we love most are those that receive the roughest treatment, and those we know less, we confide more in," said Legolas as he took another swig of wine, his own eyes cast up to the heavens, as if remembering something.

"Yes, I believe you are right. The point is, that although we are not close friends, Legolas, that in itself helps more than it does hinder, and then – you are who you are."

"Oropher's grandchild?" he asked, now looking Doronhal squarely in the face once more.

"Yes – and yet you are so – _similar_. Has no one ever told you this?" he asked incredulously.

"My father has told me many times that I resemble him…"

"'Tis more than a resemblance, Legolas – it is uncanny … your _face_…" he whispered as he stared mesmerized once more by the startling resemblance, yet Legolas was even more beautiful than the first King of the Greenwood had been.

"Was he tall, and strong like me?" continued the Forest Lord, his eyes narrowing a little in concentration.

"Not so tall, not so strong – nay, his physiognomy was more like … Galdithion, I would say, yet he too, was well-honed, archer and pikesman that he was," he said softly, his eyes dropping away to the side. "I remember him well, even all these years later. I remember his white skin, his broad shoulders, the way his forearm muscles bunched and rippled when he pulled the bow, his mischievous smile and his army of lovers." His eyes returned to the reclining Forest Lord that watched him, the light of understanding shining in his extraordinary green eyes.

"You loved him…" it was a statement, no hint of a question in his intonation.

"Everyone loved him…" returned Doronhal.

"Nay, I mean that you _loved_ him, is that not so?" asked Legolas carefully.

Doronhal took a deep breath and let it flow noisily through his nose, taking a long drink from his goblet, before turning to Legolas once more.

"Yes, yes I loved him – yet his heart lay with Adeniel, daughter of Legaelair." A sad sigh escaped him and he drank again before continuing the tale. "And yet he gave me as much as he could – comfort and affection – 'tis not what I wanted but it was all I could have – and so I took it gladly, for I would have died for but a little piece of him, a fleeting moment of bliss, a passing caress … can you understand this, Legolas? Have you ever loved that deeply?"

Legolas' heavy, liquid green gaze fell upon the guard, replying in no uncertain terms.

"I have, I do."

TBC

"More dangerous, less wise," a phrase that Ziggy recently used in her story The Sons of Thunder. This is what I believe that sentence should mean, even if Tolkien didn't write it that way.


	6. Liquid Onyx

Horizon chapter 5

Liquid Onyx

The morning was sunny and warm if you stood in the light, yet the temperatures in the shadows were a clear reminder that Autumn was already here, however much Lothlorien had hardly changed her colours at all. In the Greenwood, however, it would become frigid quite soon; even now, its citizens would be cleaning and caring for their furs, airing them and readying them for use, and the king himself would soon don his winter crown of gold, dressed with the forest's winter fruits.

Galdithion buckled the last strap of his gear across his chest and sheathed his sword upon his back. Elladan had left him but minutes before, with a swift kiss to his lips and a soft caress of the hand, stroking the precious metal he himself had placed there as a reminder of his promise to the guard.

Just a few more years, and then he would be allowed to bind himself to the son of Elrond Earendil . He still could not believe it, and his face cracked into an uncontrollable grin. He jumped visibly and then cursed himself, striding towards the door and opening it – startling once more when he realized that Legolas stood there, his eyebrows raised in question.

"What is it? What is wrong?" he asked, his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest.

"Peace, Gal, nothing is wrong, I merely wished to speak with you before training, come!" he said, ushering his friend down to the forest floor and guiding him to the nearby gardens.

Sitting on a bench and setting their weapons to one side, Legolas turned to his friend and began what Galdithion suspected was to be a serious conversation.

"Gal, I have been thinking, about the army and its structure - about the warriors I need and in what capacities. Some of this you already know, for Elbereth knows you have stood through enough meetings. However, what I must put to you now is a proposition – one I wish you to think on for as long as you need. I do not expect an answer now, only that you think on my words, discuss them with Elladan…"

"I am intrigued – and worried – you are not going to replace me – with _Doronhal_?" asked the Galdithion incredulously, for truth be told, he had been somewhat apprehensive ever since the Sindarin guard had taken over his duties while he convalesced, and the fact that Legolas had not dismissed him when Galdithion had gone back on duty had worried him even more. He was, quite simply, jealous, he realized, and as he looked into his friend's eyes, he realized, much to his chagrin, that Legolas knew.

"My friend, listen carefully. Should you accept my offer, I will, indeed, replace you with Doronhal, but hear me out, do not jump to false conclusions – alright?" he asked with a kind smile.

"Alright, just … out with it!" said the guard irritably, a comment that did nothing but to broaden Legolas' now amused smile.

"As you know, 'tis the Commander, or King that looks to the High Constable and Herald to command his forces should he himself be unable to do so. The High Constable lords over the Constables from each of the elven realms – Imladris, Mithlond, Lothlorien, the Greenwood and it is this Constable that will command his nation's warriors in times of battle. This is my first necessity; for the army to take shape, I must now choose my constables, Gal, and I believe – that the Greenwood Constable - should be _you_…"

Galdithion sat staring uncomprehendingly at his friend, unsure of whether he had understood the words, however clear they had been.

"Legolas, there are those much more experienced than me in positions of command – Gondien, Henian, I would not know where to begin."

"Look at it this way, Gal. First, they are needed – will be needed in the Greenwood. Agreed you will need training, but so too if you were to take a command in the Greenwood. They know our lands much better than you do, and then you have an advantage over them, Gal. You have lived through this army's creation, you train with those that will command it, you know the key players – you _are_, a key player, yet more than this I trust you implicitly. I believe … I believe it is time for you to grow, evolve and serve in a different capacity. You are too valuable to stand in ceremonial attire at my back – I need you in the field, on the strategy table, before my warriors – with me, warrior to warrior."

Galdithion let out a ragged breath, for this he had not expected, he had never seen himself as a key player but a discreet guard, ever present yet inconsequential. Yet his friend's proposal was nothing short of becoming a General – it was a massive jump in rank, and a radical change of duty, one he was unsure he had ever been cut out for.

"Gal, I ask only that you think about it, and come back to me, when you are ready."

"Alright, yes - I, forgive me but that was – _unexpected._"

"I understand. Remember, just think about it, for my offer is as logical as it is practical. You are the best choice my friend, this you will come to see – I am sure of it."

They both stood slowly, as Legolas clapped a strong hand upon his guard's leather shoulder plate. "Come, training awaits!" he exclaimed, snapping Galdithion out of his stupor and guiding him towards the training grounds where Glorfindel, Elladan, Doronhal and Haldir would be waiting.

They had only been walking for a few minutes, however, when something small and hard hurled through the foliage, hitting Legolas' head with a resounding crack that sent him to the ground in a surprised stupor.

The ring of Galdithion's sword echoed through the glade, its dangerous glint catching his blue eyes as he stood over his friend, feeling rather than watching as he made his way to his knees, a hand over the wound to one side of his forehead.

Yet whoever had thrown what Galdithion knew to have been a stone, had no intention of showing themselves – well - they would indeed be stupid to do so, he snorted to himself.

Feeling his friend's hand on his shoulder once more, Legolas spoke in a tone that was all too familiar to Galdithion, for he had heard it many times, and knew exactly the promise it held.

"Shall we show them how Silvans chase their enemies through the trees? He asked, as a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face.

"Oh _yes_! Exclaimed Galdithion, a feral sneer blooming upon his face as he sheathed his sword and took flight after his friend, already imagining who the perpetrators were. As he ran, he watched as Legolas first somersaulted and then twisted and flip-flopped, before catapulting himself into the trees, and Galdithion found himself chuckling and whooping, albeit he was already a way behind him.

He watched as the Forest Lord moved through the canopy of trees. It was breathtaking, pure spectacle, and Galdithion was sure there was magic at work, for his movements were simply … unnatural, as if he melded with his surroundings, as if he were _– liquid_ - almost, propelling himself from one branch to the next through inertia, and when he needed more height, more lift, he simply flip-flopped. The fact was that Galdithion had no hope of keeping up with him, for this, was _Hwindohtar _of The Company, and he knew himself destined to find his friend already on the ground, seeking retribution for the infantile act that, however childish, must have stung with a vengeance.

Indeed the sounds of grunts, slaps and thuds finally guided Galdithion onto the forest floor and the scene of his friend's retribution, for he fought hand to hand with two warriors simultaneously.

"Gal! There is one for you, in the bushes over there!" shouted Legolas, as he landed a kick in Gellam's gut, sending him to the ground gasping for air. However, his momentary lapse in concentration earned him a punch to the cheeckbone from Hinnor that made Galdithion wince in painful sympathy. Hinnor stood victoriously for a moment, watching as Legolas righted himself, eyes narrowing dangerously and suddenly, the arrogant sneer was gone, replaced by what seemed to be a comically mounting sense of panic.

A sadistic smile from his friend, revealed slightly bloodied teeth and Hinnor visibly wavered. Indeed Galdithion rather thought his friend was, _enjoying_ himself! Yet there was no more time to lose, for the third member of the group was backing away from the scene, and that could not be allowed to happen, for if Legolas was venting his pent up feelings of frustration on these Noldorin asses, by all the Gods, he would do no less!

Moments later, Galdithion had reduced his opponent, grabbing him by the collar of his robe and turning to face Legolas as he finished his own one-sided battle. With a lightning-fast spin, a leg uncoiled in a vicious kick to the chest that sent Hinnor sprawling backwards, his legs and arms spread-eagled. Gellam stared wide-eyed, rooted to the spot, for to continue would be useless.

Legolas smiled once more, before advancing on the now panicked warrior, who slipped to his knees before Legolas could touch him.

"My Lord, I beg forgiveness – it was but a childish impulse, it will not happen again," stuttered Gellam, his words a little to fast for one that wished to retain a modicum of dignity.

Galdithion threw a beaten Theria onto the ground beside his friend Hinnor, both now watching the scene between Gellam and Legolas.

"Do you speak for your friends too, Gellam?" asked Legolas, as if he addressed a court advisor and not an opponent he had just roughed up.

A momentary waver, and the warrior answered. "I do, my Lord."

Legolas, remained unconvinced, and so he cast his trained eye onto Hinnor, and then Theria. However, they could not hold his weighty gaze, both looking away and conceding with a brisk nod of the head.

"Good – no one needs to hear of this, yet should you continue to antagonize me, I will report your conduct to your commanding officer. Heed me, after today, I will take no personal part in your antagonism, whatever its cause – is that clear?"

Again, all he received was a nod – no words or even expressions of apology, only … embarrassment. Galdithion was sure they would hate his friend even more after this, but he was equally sure that they would cause no more trouble.

Now a fair distance away from the scene, and approaching the main living quarters once more, Legolas slapped Galdithion on the shoulder for the third and final time that morning.

"Who knows, that may well have been your last intervention as my personal guard – an anecdote indeed!" he laughed, "a punch-up between Silvan and Noldorin warriors!" he chuckled, seemingly exhilarated by the morning's events – and Galdithion rather thought he had needed that, for his friend had had to put up with much during this summit – he had needed the release that comes with the rush of adrenaline. Pity that Avorn had not been with them, he mused, as his mind began to make rather morbid suggestions as to what he would do with _that_ braggart…

"Perhaps," smiled Galdithion. "Now, how are you going to explain your way out of that cut and bruise - and this split lip?" he signaled with his finger.

"Ah, eh, well – a new technique, the dangers of the training grounds! You were with me, of course, for you do not look much better, my friend."

"Alright, if you think that will work…" answered Gal somewhat skeptically, swiping at his own bleeding nose and wondering if Legolas himself believed what he had just said.

…..

Llyn sat upon a stone bench in the Lady's gardens, an area open only to Galadriel, her family, and her distinguished guests. Beside her was Arwen, who sat with a book in her lap, yet she did not read, for like Llyn, she too, was introspective after their conversation the previous day.

Arwen closed her book and set it aside, opening her mouth to speak, yet excited banter interrupted the moment, and both turned towards the noise, their eyes widening as they shot to their feet and ran towards Legolas and Galdithion.

Arwen's hand reached for the bruised cut over Legolas' brow as her eyes shot to his split lip, while Llyn examined Galdithion's bruised, yet smiling face, and a somewhat swollen nose.

"What on Arda happened!" demanded Arwen.

"I have been instructed to say that we were trying out a new training technique…" said Galdithion sarcastically, to which Legolas snorted. Gal knew he could speak here, amongst their closest friends, knew that Legolas would not mind them knowing.

"I will have their _hides_!" shouted Arwen, her lovely face screwed up in a mask of deep loathing.

"No need, my lady," replied Legolas. "They have received their punishment – there is no need for this to transcend, Arwen, Llyn…" he said meaningfully, the playful grin vanishing from his face.

Both considered his words for a moment, before deciding he was probably right. "Come, both of you – to my talan, for you are both a sight, said Arwen, all business as she steered the two warriors into the trees, Llyn trailing not far behind.

Moments later, Arwen stood fussing over Galdithion's face with a wet cloth, as Llyn did likewise for Legolas, whose eyes darted from Llyn to Arwen and back again. "What is wrong with you two?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Llyn as she dapped at his forehead a little too hard.

"Ai!"

"Forgive me! – 'tis nothing, we were just discussing today's agenda in court," she said, wondering if her words had sounded as lame as she thought they did.

They must have, for Legolas simply smiled indulgently, yet Arwen surprised them all then, as she took Galdithion by the arm and steered him to the door.

"Come, I have something for that nose in my quarters," she said as she looked back meaningfully at her friend. She said nothing, but her eyes told Llyn exactly what she was thinking… '_tell him_…'

Now alone, Llyn finished her healing in silence, her eyes settling not once on those of her friend, for if she were to look at him, she knew she would crumble and he would insist until her secret was told. And then Arwen's prophetic words came back to her, '_and yet you must_.' Llyn had agreed with the words, but now that the time had come – her mind was paralyzed.

Legolas seemed to understand she needed silence, indeed her mind was whirling and her face must have shown it as clearly as any words. And so, Legolas sat patiently, waiting, it seemed, for her to speak.

Yet when she did not, Legolas broke what had, by now, become an unbearable silence.

"Llyn – whatever it is, _tell_ me?"

Her eyes moved from one side of his face to the other, surprised, panicked even, as the words escaped her lips, painfully slowly.

"I – I love you," she whispered, "and there is nothing I can do to avoid it."

…

Court had yielded no results, the stalemate was absolute, and ideas were becoming scarce. Llyn had been there, at Elrond's shoulder, her personal feelings tucked strictly away behind her practiced mask of cool indifference; not enough though, to hide it from Elrond.

After her confession to Legolas, they had talked briefly and then left, each to their own thoughts and duties. She knew it would not be the last time they spoke of it, and she rather thought that Legolas had been – upset, and yet she had seen no real surprise when she had told him – almost as if she had simply confirmed what he already suspected. Had she been that transparent? she wondered, irritated at herself, for she knew she had, at least with Legolas, for he was just as insightful as Arwen was.

Breathing deeply, she resolved to seek out Arwen later, for her friend deserved at least this much. Yet more than this, Llyn needed to talk, and Elrond's daughter was the perfect choice, for so many reasons.

…..

Galdithion mulled over his own conundrum, for Legolas had asked him to serve as a Constable in the new elven army. He had been shocked and quite frankly, surprised that he should be deemed the right person for the job. Legolas was not one for favouritism, and the guard knew that the offer was one his friend must have considered deeply.

Yet what would it imply? Where would he be stationed? Surely not in the Greenwood, for he rather thought that the Greenwood troops that Thranduil conceded, would live closer to Lothlorien, at their so far undecided headquarters. He would be no better off than he was now with regard to his closeness to Elladan, for his lover would be Herald, and travel would be high on his list of duties.

And then, could he do this? Command thousands of elves? Instill absolute discipline and respect? A wave of insecurity rippled through his body and his stomach fluttered at the thought of it. He would need help, from Glorfindel and Haldir, not only on the intricacies of command, but on strategy.

Taking a deep breath, he leant against the trunk of a tree, realizing that enough was enough – he would think more upon it later, talk with Elladan. However, his thoughts were interrupted, as noise attracted him to a small glade not far from where he stood.

The trees provided what shelter he needed, for he had no desire to be seen, or felt, for the spectacle that played out before him was one he would remember always. A Noldo was training with the short swords, and he was liquid onyx.

As he moved around his imaginary foe, his eyes never left the spot where the eyes would be – yellow and dull, beady and diseased – and yet his body moved incessantly, back and forth, round and round, and only when necessity dictated, did he remove his eyes to turn. In a split second though, they would be pinned defiantly on that spot once more, his silken black hair fanning out behind him until it came to rest once more upon his shoulder.

His arms moved in arcs and wide circles, the pommels swiveling in his skilled hands as his powerful legs lent his honed body the balance and speed it required. Back perfectly straight, movements both precise and ample – he was grace, deadly and moving, so painfully desireable.

Had he drawn breath since he had crouched down amongst the foliage? Had he swallowed or wet his dry lips? He knew not, only that his soul sang in joy, for this one was _his _– and he simply could not comprehend his good fortune. How was it, that he had been gifted with this portent of nature? What had he done to deserve such deference from the Valar? Or perhaps it was what he _would_, one day, do?

His lover had first come to the forest realm as a mediocre warrior, under-motivated, without purpose or path, albeit his potential had been clear to all who had wanted to look – and yet now, these few years later, this is what he had become… _Rafnohtar_.

Earendil shone so very brightly upon this, his grandson, for he had achieved so much so soon - he was strong and loyal, of quick mind and skillful command. He was a healer, and now, a fearsome warrior, released from his watery home to serve the future high king, and again, Galdithion marveled that he, a lowly Silvan, had attracted the attention of one so great.

Elladan was liquid onyx, fast and smooth, polished and exotic, sophisticated and dangerous, hard yet sculpted to utter perfection – _his_, and Galdithion doubted no more.

….

Legolas had gone to his training, explaining away his cut and bruised face, although Glorfindel had not believed a word of it. Of course he had said nothing, for they were in the company of the Galadhrim, but later, Legolas would not escape the questions that begged to be asked, for Glorfindel had detected the strong, emotional undercurrents that the Forest Lord worked so hard to mask.

And so it was that after another, now routine day in Lothlorien, Legolas sat under a sprawling beech, his arms wrapped around Glorfindel who sat before him, half reclining against his lover's strong, half-exposed chest.

They did not speak for long minutes, each lost in their own thoughts as early evening turned the sky a vibrant deep blue, the colour of Legolas' thoughts, for Llyn's words to him earlier that day, had saddened him beyond his own expectations. He had been right that day in the glade, and now that he knew, he was at a loss.

"You wait for me to tell you, and I love you for that," said Legolas softly.

Glorfindel did not speak, only half turned his head to acknowledge that he was listening.

"Galdithion and I dealt a little Silvan punishment to Hinnor and company – nothing important, mind you… 'tis not what has me thoughtful, though," he explained. Again, Glorfindel did not answer, but simply lent against him, listening intently.

"Llyn did confess to me … that, she loves me," he said softly, his voice fragile, almost.

Glorfindel collected his legs under him and turned to fully face his lover. "She loves you…" he repeated flatly.

"Yes, as you love me, and I you – thus, she loves me," he clarified, for Llyn was lover to them both, he needed to explain that her feelings were not those of a long-time casual lover.

Glorfindel let out a long breath before commenting on what had just been revealed.

"It saddens you, does it not?" he asked delicately.

"Aye, it saddens me, because I cannot reciprocate that love, Glorfindel. I can offer deep affection, but not my heart, for that is yours – this you know."

Legolas watched as Glorfindel's eyes shone a little brighter. "Yes, this I know – yet we must find a solution for her. She is our lover, and I wonder at King Thranduil's words regarding our own conditional binding…

Legolas' brow furrowed only slightly, before it smoothed out, his lips parting just a little – he understood, it seemed, yet he said nothing.

"Who could be a better candidate, Legolas? for you will need a queen consort if you are to be king…"

"And yet," hesitated Legolas, "and yet I would have you sire your own children too, Glorfindel, should you so desire – would she be willing to provide for us both?" he asked, his face betraying disgust, almost, at his own words, and Glorfindel understood. Llyn would be little more than an object of reproduction – and yet Glorfindel rather thought there was a way out.

"Legolas, here me now, for I have an idea…"


	7. Life at Least

Chapter six: Life At Least

Another fruitless week passed them by in this autumnal Lothlorien, although it somehow seemed to Legolas, that it had not been as adverse as it had once been. He was greeted kindly for the most part, and the sour expressions and distrustful glares seemed to be fading or perhaps transforming into something – less hostile, more inquisitive.

It was a hazy, unusually warm morning for the time of year, and Legolas felt the need for solitude before the hustle and bustle of the day began. He was restless, and his dreams had been plagued with strange symbolisms he had yet to understand; Llyn, Mithrandir, Gildor and Galdithion had paraded before his mind's eye, yet what he was trying to tell himself, as yet, remained a mystery. There had, however, been one scene that had glued itself stubbornly to his conscious mind, one that had him sitting in contemplative silence, until the trees nudged him - he had company. Yet they were mischievous, these mellryn, and would not say who, albeit Legolas was sure they knew his identity, and he smiled indulgently, for they seemed to be testing him, playing games with their new lord.

The air around him shifted a little, and the ground, trees and wind seemed to hum just a little louder, pulse a little stronger, dimming the noise in his ear and setting the fine hairs of his body on end – magic, there was _magic_ in the air.

Indeed he had been right, and a few, scant minutes later, Legolas lay against Mithrandir's grey-clad shoulder beneath a birch, his extraordinarily long hair spilling over the tattered grey robes of the Maia, and a blade of grass dancing merrily between his plush lips. They simply sat together in silent greeting, enjoying the moment and the physical contact of close friends long parted.

Their relationship had developed into something that was now, difficult to describe. It was not the relationship of father and son and yet it shared some of those traits. Neither was it a brotherly affection, for there was just a little more beneath the surface…

"Mithrandir," said Legolas softly.

"Um…," replied the pensive wizard.

"I dreamt of you last night," confessed the somewhat hesitant elf.

"Did you now? I wonder what feats of bravery I was performing…"

"Not feats, but you were not in this body," he began, and Mithrandir was instantly wary, sitting up a little and forcing Legolas to support himself where he sat.

"You were – _stunning_. Tall and lithe, your skin smooth and radiant, your hair the colour of mahogany and your eyes, a blue so deep in brought to mind the sky at twilight," he finished, watching the wizard for the confirmation he sought.

"I wonder, then, why you would dream such a thing, and why you believe the one you dreamt of, was _me_," said Mithrandir, apparently unwilling to discuss it, yet Legolas' curiosity had not been sated, and so he continued.

"I rather thought - that it was _you_ in your true form, Mithrandir, you as you are in Valinor," he trailed off, his eyes searching deeply into the wizard's sparkling blue orbs, eyes so alive and youthful they did not match the gnarled body they went with.

Mithrandir simply met the Forest Lord's gaze, his own eyes searching the face of his young friend.

"Perhaps you will see for yourself someday, should you venture to those shores," he answered.

Legolas simply held the weighty gaze, and smiled a little. He knew the Maia did not inhabit their true forms, it was something he had found out in the most surprising of ways just months before during his pilgrimage to Aiwendil. Yet it was hard to imagine the wizard in any other form than the one he currently appeared in – it was a trick of the eye, one devised to create harmony and instant empathy, tools Legolas knew were paramount to Mithrandir's purpose on Middle-earth.

His thoughts abruptly ended, and he suddenly sat rigid, feeling that familiar warm tingling in his eyes that forewarned him of change. Sure enough, Mithrandir was looking at him questioningly now. The Forest Lord could only smile back at him though, timidly at first, and then so wide he broke out into delighted laughter as his mind finally processed the information it was avidly offered.

"Mithrandir, friends approach!" he said.

"Friends, you say?"

"Friend, for in truth, there is only one," he added wryly with an amused glance at a gnarled mellryn.

"That would be my travelling companion, one that knows you _well_," said the wizard, somewhat ironically.

Legolas smiled in genuine joy and affection as Gildor strolled towards him. He rose and met his friend and part-time lover half-way, opening his own arms to the offered embrace and falling into eager chatter, under the shrewd, avid gaze of the Maia.

…

Gildor awoke to a heavy, grey sky that promised abundant rain – how appropriate, he thought, that the weather should so illustrate his own, dour mood.

It was not a passing emotion, though, for he had been this way for months now, wondering if staying in Middle-earth served any purpose other than to wallow in his own sense of guilt and embarrassment. He could no longer say, for Gildor Inglorion, half-brother to Galadriel, had lost his way.

He could no longer defend his people, for the lands of Eriador had become dangerous. After months of debates amongst his people, they had decided ask Elrond Peredhel for asylum. They would not, however, forsake those lands that had harboured them for so long, lands they had helped the Rangers to protect. They would continue to patrol them, but should it be conceded, they would do so under the command and therefore safety, of the Imladrian army.

Yet upon his arrival in the Hidden Valley, it had been Elrohir who had greeted him, explaining that his father was attending what had come to be known as the Lorien Summit. Mithrandir had suggested they travel together, something Gildor was grateful for; he would not wait what could potentially be months, before gaining Elrond's approval of his plans. They did not have that long. Attacks by orcs and wild men were becoming commonplace, and strange occurrences were being reported by the rangers in the area – stories of strange beings and men from exotic lands.

On his arrival in the Golden Wood, he had been welcomed as he always had been – with grudging acceptance and cold denial. It was, once more, time for that nauseating, half-acceptance of his kinship with Galadriel; Gildor the half-brother, bastard son of Finrod.

It was not that he minded being ignored as the son of such a great one – it was the embarrassment that his presence caused that weighed him down, frayed his nerves. It was this that had kept him from civilization for so long, wandering around the lands of Eriador with his faithful followers that would not question, that offered him only loyal service and brotherly affection. Only there, with them, was he ever happy.

He sighed as he sat before the mirror in his room, tying the sides of his hair back and clipping it at the crown of his head. Quick, easy and practical. It suited him, he thought, no matter they thought him plain – uninteresting, for what did it matter? He no longer had a people to represent, no partner to impress. This journey was merely one that would tie loose ends for Gildor; assure the safety of his people, serve Elrond until Gildor felt the urge to sail, if, he could ever decide. The trip would also serve to sever any tenuous ties he still felt with Galadriel and Glorfindel. Perhaps, he mused, only then would he be able to envisage himself there, in Elvenhome, at peace with himself at last – _forgiven_ – at last. And yet he doubted it. For some reason he could not fathom, he simply could not sail – the feeling of work undone slipping into his mind every time he contemplated the mere possibility.

A swift wrap on his shutter revealed a bushy grey beard and an impertinent glare – Mithrandir.

"Well, Inglorion. Did you sleep well, at last?" inquired the wizard as he invited himself into the talan, his eyes immediately straying to the herbal tea steaming over the hearth.

"Nay, I did not – and you had best not call me that here, _Wizard_."

"Oh? How so? Cowed are you, by their banter and their stares?"

"NO, I am not cowed, Mithrandir – simply tired of it," he corrected, his voice dropping slowly into silence.

Mithrandir's expression softened, and Gildor knew he understood the wherefore of it. Indeed the wizard was one of the very few people he could speak plainly to. They knew each other well and he was sincerely fond of the maia, for he did not _judge_ – and that in itself was more than enough to endear this bitter lord to gruff wizard.

"Is it not early for you to be vertical, Gandalf? I rather fancied you would wallow in bed after our long trek," said Gildor, as was his way, biting, caustic, almost – insulting if you did not know him well.

"Ah, there will be time enough for that. Yet I wanted to take private council with you and a few others before today's session. Both you and I need input on the state of things if we are to help in this endeavor."

"We? And what is it you think _I_ can do, Gandalf. You know the impact I have on others – why would they listen to _me_? Why would I _want_ them to? Besides, this is not my cause; it was never my intention to participate in this summit – this you know."

"Trust me, Gildor. There are things you have not considered, things you have resigned yourself to suffering…"

A knock at the door interrupted Gandalf's attempt to draw Gildor into the debate. Glorfindel, Legolas and Elrond, followed by Llyn and Elladan filed into the room. Galdithion was the last to enter, nodding to Doronhal, who now took up his pace outside the door.

Gildor's talan was small, and the furniture somewhat Spartan – not at all fitting for a Lord it seemed to those that now set about perching themselves upon the furniture, for there were only two chairs to be had. Gildor greeted them with a simple nod, except that his eyes lingered on Glorfindel a little longer than protocol dictated. He could not help it, for to simply look upon his ex-lover eased his aching soul – lifted that unbearable cold weight from his chest.

What continued was a quick and efficient summary of their negotiations so far, mainly from Elrond, with a few timely interventions from Llyniel. Mithrandir asked many questions, yet Gildor remained silent – in fact he wished they would just all go away and leave him to his business – all except Glorfindel, and perhaps Legolas. He would not mind their company, yet it was not precisely politics he would talk to _them_ about, he mused.

He realized with a start, that they had finished, and that Elrond stood before him, his grey eyes dancing over Gildor's face.

"Will you walk with me, Gildor?"

"Of course, Elrond," he said levelly, wondering what on Middle Earth Elrond wanted to discuss. As it so happened, it was the perfect opportunity to do what he had come here for. Better than good, he thought, for it seemed he would be able to get away from this place sooner than he had expected.

Yet no sooner had he thought it, and that heavy, sinking feeling assailed him once more. He was simply baffled by himself. He wanted Elrond's help for his people and he wanted to be far away from Lothlorien – yet when the opportunity presented itself, it felt – _wrong_.

They came to sit on a bank in a shady corner, and once sure they were alone, Elrond turned to Gildor and searched his grey eyes once more.

"You are tired, I can tell," he began, waiting for Gildor to return his gaze, and when he did, Elrond startled a little, at what, Gildor could not say.

"What else do you see, Elrond? For your eyes tell me you are surprised – yet perhaps you should not be. I can no longer protect the folk of Eriador and my people need the shelter only your realm can offer them. 'Tis why I have travelled here, to ask asylum of you, for my people and myself."

"What has happened that is so dire that you seek asylum, Gildor?" asked Elrond, his brow deeply furrowed, "I had no idea that things had taken such a turn for the worse. True we have trained our efforts in other areas, thinking Eriador safe under the rangers and your own men, yet what you say is – troublesome indeed," he said, genuine worry etching the strong lines of his face.

"You could not have known, Elrond, for these events are recent – it is almost as if… they search for something, or someone. I have seen a pattern to it, Elrond, one I will be happy to trace out with Glorfindel once we are back home."

"Of course, Gildor. You and your people will be made most welcome – for as long as you wish it," he said, watching the lord's face for his reaction. Yet it was not what he had expected.

"You do not seem happy to have achieved your objective – for long have you travelled and well you have stated your case, and yet… you are still as tired, still as troubled, there is no relief in your eyes, Gildor."

"And why would there be? Think where this leaves me, Elrond, What it _makes_ me: homeless, and useless."

"Yet you will not sail, will you? He asked rhetorically.

"Sail where? To the place I left in rebellion, exiled for my disobedience?"

"You were forgiven, we _all_ were."

"But that does not change the facts, Elrond. I did what I did and now – for shame, I cannot sail."

"And so, how will you extricate yourself from this unending circle?"

"Perhaps I cannot – perhaps that is the price I pay."

"I do not think that is your fate, Gildor, for I see you in a different light, one you may be surprised to hear."

Gildor said nothing, but his face showed his interest had been piqued.

"What better way to atone for what you feel was an offence, than to pay service to the Valar?" he said, casually, almost, waiting for the inevitable reply.

Indeed, Gildor snorted. "So if I sing the praises of the Valar for a few years, I will feel better and sail?"

"No, that is not what I mean. Hear me, Gildor. In this our endeavor to place Legolas upon the throne of Elvendom, we strive to carry out the plans of the Valar – it is _they_ that have shown us the way. Legolas must bring us all together in order to bring down Mairon, restore the king of men upon his throne in the West. By helping us in this, Gildor, you help to implement the plans of the Valar – you serve them – you … _atone_, for your sins," he finished softly, watching Gildor's face as it changed from defeat, to anger, and then finally, to – interest.

"Speak," he said briskly.

"First, we place Legolas where he needs to be, and then my friend – we _fight_. You serve penance for the crimes you believe you committed, and you earn your place in Elvenhome, regain your pride, not that you ever lost it. Is that not a good plan, my friend?"

After a few moments of pensive silence, Gildor responded, yet his tone was no longer flat and monotonous, but soft, and tentative.

"I have oftentime wondered if my reticence to sail is more than the need for atonement, Elrond. I know it is a part of it – my own feelings of – _inadequacy._ Yet there is something more, something I cannot fathom – as if I have not yet fulfilled my purpose, for all the years I have roamed this land," he said, almost to himself now.

"Could it be _this_, Gildor? This thing I ask of you, to follow Legolas, help us in this task? Could this be what you are meant to be a part of?" asked Elrond.

"I do not know, Elrond, I simply do not know. But come, tell me why are you so interested in my participation when you know full well I hold no sway over Galadriel, quite the contrary!"

"I do not deny that, Gildor. 'Tis true that Galadriel has never openly accepted you as kin, yet neither of you have ever really tried… and then, I rather think that your conundrum is… the same as hers," said Elrond meaningfully. I believe you two are of like mind, and if Galadriel can come to see things as you do, for the same reasons, this may well tip the balance in our favour."

Another snort told Elrond that Gildor was, at the best, skeptical.

"Think on it, my friend, and come to council. Listen and judge for yourself, and then perhaps we can talk again."

Gildor held Elrond's eyes for moment, before nodding slowly and standing. "Come then, take me to this council. I cannot promise you anything, Elrond, only that I will think on your proposal."

"And that is enough for me," smiled the healer. However, he would be placing no bets on Gildor's decisions, for Elrond's triumph was tentative, at the least, and promising at the most.

…..

Arwen sat through the entire council session, but that did not mean she was not listening. She was, of course, and closely, but more than this, she watched, and analyzed, for there was much going on beneath the polished surface of experience.

Llyniel had confessed her feelings for Legolas more than a week ago, and yet as far as she knew, nothing had come of it. As she watched Legolas, she knew that he would broach the subject, and soon by the looks of things, for every so often, his eyes would stray to the only female councilor in the room and his face would turn pensive and calculating. Glorfindel's attention moved between Legolas and Llyniel, yet his expression was not pensive at all, but impatient almost. It was then, that Arwen realized there was a plan in motion, one Glorfindel was unsure Legolas would accede to; yes, she was sure of it.

Gildor was another interesting object of study. He listened yet, most uncharacteristically, did not intervene once. True the Lorien councilors looked upon him with a hint of disdain upon their faces, even her grandmother – Gildor's _sister_. It was times like this, that Arwen saw no kinship between herself and her grandmother. This ability to ignore her own brother was simply, incomprehensible to her - of a hard coldness and lack of emotion that she could not identify herself with – did not _want_ to. She had never spoken of Gildor with her grandmother, true, yet she rather thought that the subject was taboo, that Galadriel would not speak of it. The words Arwen had spoken to Llyn not long ago, came back to her now … _'and yet you must_…'. Galadriel needed to solve this embarrassing problem, but how? And who could possibly bring about such a feat?

….

Lunch found Legolas, Glorfindel and Llyniel seated together at the high table, together with Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, and Gildor. Enquiries were made as to Mithrandir's whereabouts, to which Legolas simply commented that he was 'out and about', earning himself a disbelieving arch of an eyebrow from Galadriel which Legolas just caught from the corner of his eye.

It made him wonder, for he had oftentimes pondered on the nature of her relationship with Mithrandir. Why, he could not say, but there was a certain sensation they provoked in him when they were together, a nearness – an empathy that transcended that of simply good friends. His treacherous eyes turned then to Celeborn, and he wondered if the Sindarin lord suspected anything, or did he know, and simply accept their relationship?

Turning his attention back to the excellent meat pie that had been served for lunch, he became increasingly aware of Glorfindel's furtive glances. Oh, he knew the wherefore of them, for he had been waiting to talk to Llyn about their 'plan' for some days now, and yet he had taken his regal time to talk to her for he was still ironing out the details in his own mind. He would not play with her sentiments – everything had to be crystal clear, for the three of them.

Perhaps the time had come, then, he realized, for he had no doubts any more, however much it pained him, and so once the meal was finished, he turned his head subtly in Glorfindel's direction, the slightest of nods telling him that he acknowledged the unanswered questions and the barely concealed impatience.

"If you will excuse us, my Lady, my Lords," he said, rising slowly and taking Llyniel's hand in his. She took it instinctively and curtsied to the Lords before allowing herself to be steered away under the curious stares of their companions.

Gildor bent to speak into Glorfindel's ear, a faint smirk on his otherwise hard expression. "Will you not be joining them, then?" he asked in a tone that left Glorfindel in no doubt as to what he had imagined - wanted.

"I will, indeed, be joining them. Though I would see you later, if you like," he conceded.

Gildor's face turned sour before he returned to his dessert, unsure of whether Glorfindel had meant to hurt him the way he just had…

…

The door shut behind them and Llyniel jumped visibly, betraying her heightened state of nervousness and anxiety, watching as Legolas walked slowly over to the window and sat on the seat below it, leaning back and resting one foot on the bench below him.

"Join me?" he said softly as he held out one hand.

Walking to him, she sat at his foot, a little stiffly, waiting for the inevitable conversation that would seal her fate, one way or the other.

"I have thought much on our conversation, Llyn – both in contemplative silence, and with Glorfindel – I thought you should know…" he began, his eyes lingering upon her own. She had known, of course, that this was the reason they had left the table early – yet Legolas seemed sad and that did not bode well for what he would say to her. Yet she held her silence, hoping against all hope that she was wrong…

"You know, I wonder at why you would tell me of your feelings, Llyn, after all these years. You know that my heart is given… 'tis not like you – not unless there was some reason for it – something you feel can be _gained_…" he stressed, his eyes now boring into her own and making her uncomfortable.

He knew her too well, for her head bowed in unwarranted shame. Now, he would force her to tell him what she thought could be a solution – he was astute.

"Legolas, I… I thought long and hard on this, for I did not wish to hurt you, never _you_," she stressed, her brow furrowing in distress.

"And yet – Llyn – you _are_ a politician – tell me."

She watched him as he sat forward, waiting for her to speak. She remembered her father advising her to tell Legolas of her feelings, but not to discuss the political issues with him, and yet Legolas had anticipated her tactic, and was now throwing it back at her, forcing her to take the initiative.

"I thought, I thought that I could fill that space that your lord father obliges you to fill – a consort to bear children for the future king…" There, she had said it, and her embarrassment was complete. She wanted to squirm and scream and run away from him and his penetrating eyes.

They turned from hard stones of emerald to soft spring leaves and a warm palm covered her wet cheek, a rough thumb stroking it delicately.

"I needed to hear it, Llyn, needed to hear from your own lips what it is you are prepared to sacrifice – and yet I am unsure you realize just what it is you would condemn yourself to…"

"Legolas – I do know – for if _you_ have spent the last two weeks pondering my confession, I have spent a _lifetime_ understanding what it is I will sacrifice – what I already do, every day," she finally whispered, watching his face as she began her tale, and she became Lady Llyniel, advisor to the court of the Greenwood.

Standing now, as if reciting in Thranduil's court, she stated her case; detached, cool reasoning replaced the strong emotions broiling beneath the surface.

"A king needs a consort to bear his children, for that is what his subjects will expect of him, and you are no exception. The female you take as consort will be a secondary mate in this case, for your soulmate is already chosen, it is Glofindel that would sit at your side, should you take up the mantle of kingship – she will be partially bound to you and you to her, legitimate in the eyes of the Valar…" she said, as she turned to face Legolas, who now stood behind her.

"And what of the 'female' that bears him legitimate offspring? Is she to have no other purpose than to rear children? What of her feelings and her _dreams_?"

"She accepts the nearness, the affection, the smallest measure of love he gives to her, for were she not his consort, she would have none of those things – and so what would be worse? That your dreams do not come true entirely, or that you simply have no dreams to tell of?"

His eyes sparkled and he looked away, his jaw clenching, his distress evident.

"Legolas, can you give me your affection? Your passion? Protection should I need it? Make me a part of your life – respect me as a friend and lover? As the mother of your children?"

Moving slowly towards her once more, he took a lock of her hair and looked upon her sadly.

"Is this enough for you? Can you truly live a lifetime without finding the one that would give you his heart, and his soul – do you renounce such a treasured thing?"

"I can – I already have…" she whispered, battling with her own tears that pricked at her eyes. "A lifetime without you is torture, but a lifetime beside you, without your heart, is life at least…"

She watched through the haze of her tears as he looked down, a single tear dropping to the floor. '_Damn him_,' she thought once more '_damn Glorfindel to the void for taking his heart'._

"I will not concede to this unless there is some other reason to take you as consort; I will not take you with the sole purpose of _child-bearing_," he whispered fiercely. "Be my Chief Advisor, Llyn, help me in this task, should it ever begin. Guide me with your wisdom, as your father has ever done with my lord father. This is what Glorfindel and I would have. Your position must be unquestionable; your worth evident. The reasons why you are consort must transcend the boundaries of jealousy, or mockery. If I am to take your happiness, I would at least give you your self-esteem, your place in this world."

"I agree," she whispered numbly, for she was so shocked with the outcome of the conversation. She had braced herself for the worst, and now that the solution had been found – one that surpassed all her expectations – she simply felt, overwhelmed.

"I will write to my father, and Lord Aradan. Should they give their consent, I will ask you to be my consort, and my Chief Advisor. This is the measure of what I can give to you now, sweet Llyn," he said softly, and then he guided her into his arms, kissing the top of his head, as if sealing her fate, and then he left her alone, in search of the trees and Glorfindel.

….

Gildor was old, and he was tired, a weak and shriveled shadow of what he had once been. He only ever felt alive in battle, or when he was with Glorfindel and Legolas. Life grinded on him, slowly wittling away his self-esteem, his enthusiasm. He needed relief, he needed comfort. His eyes suddenly filled with tears, for he had just confessed his own need, albeit solely to himself. He had succumbed to his own suffering and a wave of unbearable self-pity slammed into his chest so that it caved and Gildor cried silent tears of regret – for himself and for what he had always _been_ – the bastard son of a beloved king, and then for what he had _become_, a burnt shell that served no purpose, yet unable to retire, for the feeling of work undone would not let him rest.

The sun had set not minutes ago and the sky had turned an intense blue. It was strangely quiet, he thought – and a tingling came to his stomach and his chest felt crushed. It was as if he had been bereaved, he thought, but who had died? He had no beloved to lose… What was this feeling of strangeness? Of anticipation? He swiped at his tears in irritation.

A disturbance drew his attention to Galadriel, who walked slowly towards him until she stood over his kneeling form, looking down upon him as she had always done. He returned her gaze boldy, recognizing all too well the likeness they shared. She understood it seemed, for she slowly knelt down beside him and stared into the distance.

"Do you feel it? Gildor? Do you feel the _shift_?"

"Shift?" he asked, somewhat baffled. "I feel _something_, yet what it is I cannot say."

Her head turned to him and she regarded him once more – 'calculating' thought Gildor. She was considering, turning something over in her mind. 'So alike' he thought again. The straight nose, the thin lips, the piercing eyes and the pride, the thrice-damned pride of the Noldor.' And just as he began to wonder at what she would be like as a sister, he remembered her public rejection of him, her refusal to acknowledge him as the blood of Finrod, and all thoughts of kinship fled him once more.

"I am not so cold, Gildor," she whispered.

"Are you not? For it would seem that way to me, my Lady," said Gildor somewhat flatly. She was in his mind, he realized, and he lacked the skill to rid himself of her probing.

"You too, would hide from me?" she asked, "what is it, that you would hide from me?"

"'Tis not what I wish to hide, it is the unfair balance – why should you look when I cannot? Surely you must earn the trust and respect of the one you wish to probe? Surely you have no right to access the feelings and thoughts of others that have not acquiesced … or is it you think you _do_ have that right, as princess of the Noldor…?"

However, he could not press his point, for none other than Legolas had emerged from the trees into the glade where half-brother and half-sister knelt shoulder to shoulder. Indeed the Forest Lord seemed surprised – '_strange_', thought Gildor, for one as perceptive as he.

"Forgive me," he said from afar, to which Galadriel answered quickly, uncharacteristically so.

"Come, Legolas, join us if you will."

His brow furrowed, for just like Gildor, he seemed not to understand why she would wish for his presence in what was clearly a private moment.

He sunk down before them, briefly looking at each one before looking down. He seemed sad, realized Gildor.

"'Tis a strange night, this night. For the shift is _here_, between the three of us…" murmured Galadriel, her thoughts turned inwards, it seemed.

Gildor frowned in puzzlement, but Legolas showed no such bafflement – only resignation. He _knew_ something, felt something too, and Gildor suddenly felt at an acute disadvantage.

"What is this _shift_ you speak of?"

It was Legolas, who answered him. "Things that will change this night, things that are necessary for our future success, Gildor. This night is a marker, a beacon, a milestone in our journey towards destiny, yet do not ask me why," he said, turning to Galadriel, who met his gaze coolly.

"And your heart, Forest Lord?" asked Galadriel as her hand moved to his chest and touched him briefly.

He breathed deeply, a little raggedly, and Gildor was intrigued, for he had thought Legolas and Glorfindel's relationship a given thing – surely nothing had happened, he wondered to himself, his own heart accelerating at the idea.

"My heart is whole, and yet it breaks for one who would sacrifice so much, for so little," he trailed off hoarsely.

"She loves you. The simple brush of a hand against yours is no small thing, Legolas, 'tis everything. She will be a good consort to you, and an excellent advisor…"

She, _she_? Llyniel! realized Gildor, they spoke of Llyniel becoming Legolas' consort – and what of Glorfindel?

Too late he realized he had spoken the words and Legolas' strange green eyes rested plainly upon his own. "Glorfindel continues to rest in my soul – that will never change, my friend."

Gildor looked down, berating himself for acting so brashly. "Forgive me, Legolas, truly."

"I do. I know what he meant to you, what he still does…"

Gildor suddenly felt beaten, and the drowning feeling was back. He had always held a small modicum of hope, yet tonight, for some reason, that had been severed – completely and irremediably, and he bowed his head for the weight of it.

"He was all I had left here – without him, there is nothing. No purpose, no love, no reason to stay…"

"There are many reasons for staying, Gildor," began Legolas under the avid gaze of Galadriel, who listened closely.

"Follow me, Lord Gildor. Follow _us_ on this path to Mairon and his destruction. Be a part of _we - priviledged – few_. Fight with me and return victorious – and worthy, in your own mind…"

Gildor stared wide-eyed at Legolas. How had he _known_!

"I am no Lord, my Lord…"

"How so, Inglorion? Thus do you belittle your father's name? Your own inheritance? Listen to me, Gildor, and listen well. You are the son of Finarfin, great king of the Noldor, valiant and true, fierce and loyal – thus was your father. Your grandfather Finwë, High King of the Noldor, noble leader of a loyal people who _broke a nation_, their religion even, but for an iota of vengeance on those that left them bereft."

Gildor stared on in wide-eyed shock at the words that tumbled from Legolas' mouth, as if he had lived all those moments himself.

"Their blood courses through your veins, Gildor Inglorion – Finarfinion – _prince_, of the Noldor. The name of your mother changes this not, and so thus I will treat with you, my _Lord_," he finished, his gaze meaningful and determined, until after a few moments, his eyes glinted and a faint smile graced his lovely lips.

Gildor's considerable self-control wavered for a moment as he looked to the floor, collecting himself – for he felt strangely exhilarated of a sudden. As if years of shame and indecision had suddenly been lifted from his strong shoulders.

"Lord Gildor, you are _not_ alone," he continued, "for even should you not count your friends, there is one with whom your kinship is _unquestionable_…" he trailed off, his eyes wandering to Galadriel daringly.

"Some would say you are wrong, Forest Lord. Some say we are not kin at all…" countered the Lady.

"Galadriel – what does that matter – if _you _know they are wrong?"

She breathed deeply, and Gildor was truly surprised at how Legolas had turned the tables on her – glad, even that he had, and it was now his turn to watch, and analyze.

"Galadriel, what does it matter? – why do you not stand firm and claim him as kin?"

"It would not be acceptable…"

"Acceptable to who? To no one of consequence, and yet to us your friends and your allies, I have seen no opposition at all. If only – if only I could _show_ you, Galadriel, show you his worth without the layers of protocol, of ethics, of belief and custom, of pride… and if I could," he added as an afterthought, "would you _look_ – into my mind and see for yourself?"

"You would let me in – after all this time – to show me the worth of my _brother_? Yet you would not do so in order for me to see _yours_?" she asked incredulously, and suddenly, Legolas became more credible to Gildor's mind – he respected what Legolas had obviously been doing – gaining the respect she owed him with his own merits.

"I would look yes – and yet in doing so, I would see a part of you, too," she said, her eyes now searching his, for ever had he refused this one, simple act.

"Then so be it," he said.

Gildor clung to the conversation by a thread, piecing together the issues that had separated his half-sister and the future king of Elvendom, yet one simple loss of concentration and he would lose it, for it was convoluted, and then – what had Legolas meant when he, Gildor, had something to do with this – _issue_?

Yet there was no more time to ponder the point, for Legolas was shedding his boots, and his tunic, even his shirt and Gildor had to train his treacherous voice to muffle the cry of lustful delight that wracked his own body. He saw then, the impressive scar upon his side. He had heard of the terrible events in the Greenwood and Legolas' grievous injury, but he had never imagined such … damage.

Next, the forest Lord untied his bountiful hair, and Gildor watched, mesmerized as it tumbled around his shoulders heavily, the tips resting on the floor beside his knees and obscuring the marred flesh from sight. A light breeze enveloped the half-naked lord, teasing his locks and lifting his head so that he looked up, and opened his blazing green eyes to the heavens.

Looking first to Gildor, he spoke in a plain, flat tone. "Do you dare to look, Inglorion?"

"I dare it," he said, bewitched almost, for the green eyes shone from the inside and glowed outwards – it was hypnotic – it was _magic_.

Turning then to Galadriel, Legolas spoke once more.

"Fulfill your desire then, and look into my mind, princess of the Noldor…" he said, as the Lady took the proffered hand.

And thus they knelt on either side of the Forest Lord. Gildor's eyes itched and prickled and he resisted the urge to rub them. He tried to focus on the tree line before him, but his eyes were suddenly not his own, the trees becoming fuzzy of a sudden, and lights that he knew not to be there, suddenly appeared from the corner of his eyes. He tensed and his breathing accelerated, and only a squeeze from Legolas' hand managed to ground him just a little, to stay the panic that was beginning to take hold.

He was being pushed into a place that was coming into existence before his very eyes. There was light, and there was love, and suddenly, all his woes, his self-pity, and his pride, fell into insignificance, and Gildor, prince of the Noldor, cried for the beauty of it.


	8. Through His Eyes

Chapter 7: Through His Eyes

Glorfindel was sluggish, for yesterday he had trained hard, working off the strong emotions that the long, difficult discussion over Llyn had provoked. He had worked with Elladan and Galdithion with the short swords, or long knives as Legolas would call them, and then he had sparred with Haldir using the broad sword, and only when his body refused to push itself any further, had he retired.

Now, dawn had brought with it a hard steely grey sky, with storm clouds that lay threateningly on the horizon, slowly unfurling their menacing embrace - puffing out towards the forests in a line of ominous, dark towers. A strange tingling rippled through his body and he breathed deeply to rid himself of it – anxiety. His senses were awry, yet the reason for it was not yet clear to his conscious mind.

It was a day for bed, for food, conversation, good wine before a roaring hearth, in the company of good friends. It would be comforting, he thought, not to mention the other activities that such a day suggested…

Sighing, he turned, realizing that Legolas was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fully-dressed, watching him come awake.

"You are up early, my love," said Glorfindel sleepily.

"I did not sleep, Glorfindel…"

"Where were you? I was searching for you after the evening meal but you did not wish to be found it seems."

"I was in the forest..."

"Did it help?"

"Aye, yet not in the way I had expected. I rather hope that I have been able to bring Gildor and Galadriel a little closer together…"

"Family counseling, Forest Lord?" asked Glorfindel slyly as he shuffled over to his lover, mischief written all over his face.

Yet Legolas did not answer, he simply bent over, kissed Glorfindel upon the lips, and then rose to collect his weapons, arming himself as if for training, tightening the straps of his quiver as if battle was at hand.

"Glorfindel, I need some time to think. I will see you at the midday meal, my love. Forgive me?"

"Of course," replied a somewhat deflated Glorfindel, himself rising and dressing. He would attend court, then, and pass the time until lunch with Elrond and Elladan. Seek out Llyniel if she could be found, for if she were to become Legolas' consort, Glorfindel needed to develop his own relationship with her.

With Legolas now gone, Glorfindel himself made to leave their talan, yet no sooner had he opened the door, than he came face to face with a ceremonial guard, one of Galadriel's own sentries.

"My Lord Glorfindel, your presence and that of Lord Legolas is required urgently in the council chambers. The session will commence in 30 minutes."

"Thank you," replied Glorfindel simply, "please inform the Lady that Lord Legolas is not in residence," he instructed, before closing the door and striding towards Elrond's quarters and, hopefully, enlightenment; for urgent councils were only ever called for emergency situations. He wondered then, if something had happened on the borders… '_be careful, Forest Lord_,' he said to himself, his words carrying on the wind and setting the forest to rustling in the still morning, wrenching a tentative smile from its Lord as he cantered away in the presence of a giggling Arwen Undomiel.

…..

Half an hour later, and court was declared in session. The lords, ladies, advisors and counselors were all a little puffy-eyed, for it was not yet breakfast time … all had been roused from sleep, it seemed to Elrond, for they were sluggish, and their clothes did not hang right, not that Mithrandir's ever had. However, judging from the incessant murmuring, speculation was, understandably, rife – this was not normal – something had happened, but what? What had changed? Elrond was at a loss, and as Elladan, Galdithion and Llyniel came to flank him, he saw it was the same for them, and that whatever it was, they were just as clueless as he was.

Turning his head, he found Glorfindel at his other shoulder, alone, and Elrond scowled, for both Legolas and Arwen were missing. His attention, however was wrenched back to the floor by Celeborn himself, who took the centre spot and held up his hands for silence.

My Ladies, my Lords, I beg silence, and apologies for this early start to the day. I have been informed that the news merits it, however I am as much surprised as you yourselves must be.

The murmuring grew to heights that almost impeded the Lord of Lothlorien from continuing, until the clamor of steel handled pikes upon a wooden floor heralded the arrival of Galadriel, and all was silence once more.

Elrond stood in awe of his mother-in-law, for this morning, she was as radiant as he had ever seen her, and as she floated into the centre, and nodded to her mate. She cast her serene eyes upon the semi-circle that had formed before her – for nobody was capable of sitting; indeed they had slowly but surely crept forward until they could get no closer without encroaching on the Lady's personal space.

Her eyes rested for a few moments on Elrond, before moving past her grandchild and resting upon Glorfindel.

"I have opposed Lord Elrond's proposals to name Lord Legolas High King since this summit began. Some here present have, and do, applaud my position…and others – have wondered at my reasons," she said, as her eyes fell upon Elrond once more.

The all encompassing silence continued to dominate, as her eyes travelled slowly back to Glorfindel, resting now on him, albeit her words were still directed at Elrond.

"You will remember, Lord Elrond, the importance I placed on seeing into his mind, something he has not allowed me to do. Yet perhaps you do not truly understand my need," she explained, stepping forward until she stood before her son-in-law. "I once looked into _his_ mind, Elrond, our High King – my half-uncle – _Fëanor_ – " she hissed, almost, "and I saw only darkness - putrid and rotten - evil intent and a cold, cold heart. It terrified me, for I knew the truth of it, and yet I could not speak out against him. His reign should _never_ have come to be, however pre-ordained by the Valar – _this_ is the reason I have not acceded to your proposals, Lord Elrond, for the Valar have, in the past, believed in one they should not have, one that turned to darkness, indeed it was not their first error …"

Elrond continued to stare at Galadriel. So _that _was it – he realized, her necessity to delve into Legolas' psyche was what had, at least in part, hindered her disposition to accept him as High King, simply because the Valar had dictated it. She did not wish to make that same mistake once more – did not wish to find herself in the same, unavoidable situation in which she was forced to accept the wishes of the Valar, even against her own, better, judgment.

"Last night, my Lords, for reasons completely unrelated to Lord Legolas, I was allowed to look…"

A collective gasp escaped them all, and the room and all its inhabitants seemed to breathe as one. Elrond wondered if Legolas had looked into the mirror, yet he rather thought he had not, _would_ not.

"I was right that day when my own kin struck terror and dread in me, and ever have I felt responsible for not voicing my concerns, coward for not standing strong, even against the wishes of the majority. I vowed, then, never to make the same mistake again."

She breathed deeply, yet silently, as she moved once more. Elrond had never heard his mother-in-law admit to fault, never in all his long years. This was new, she had changed – _been_ changed – and Elrond rather thought it suited her.

"Now, as you know, Lord Gildor has come to our land, and this is what precipitated Lord Legolas' offer to allow me access to his mind – not to see _his own _worth, but that - of my _brother_…" she emphasized, her heavy gaze now resting on Inglorion's startled face.

If the previous gasp had been notorious, this one was almost deafening, for their Lady had just named Gildor as kin.

"Through _his _eyes," she began, "I saw my brother," she emphasized, "and I ask you now, Noldor, Sindar, Sylvan elves of Lothlorien – do you accept Lord Gildor as Lord Gildor Finrodion, brother of Artanis Finrodiel? This is the first question I ask you to debate this morning…"

Wild voices, shouting and exclaiming, split the silence like fork lightning through pregnant cloud, as each councilor turned to his neighbour and fierce debate broke out. It took, however, but one raised hand from their lady to silence them once more.

"The second question is this… Legolas of the Greenwood, opened his mind that I could see, the way that the Forest Lord sees – and I tell you, my people, that I _saw…_" her voice wavered uncharacteristically, the effort to steady herself evident to all, "I saw such _beauty_ – and there, in that strange, magical place – I found not only my brother, but – my _king_… I looked, and I saw only light, and goodness. If the Valar erred that day, _this_ day – they do not. I therefore ask you to debate the second question of the morning. Do you accept Lord Legolas as High King of Elvendom, as the Valar dictate? As I wish?"

Glorfindel's breath left him, and Elrond's mouth hung agape, while Elladan's eyes glinted, and Llyniel stood taller and prouder, as if she had always known. Mithrandir, who stood off to one side, his face shadowed by the wooden beam he leant against, simply smiled contentedly. They were back on the right track, he knew, for his own sense of purpose suddenly flared to life and his eyes shone with the promise of life lived to its full. A wave of love surged through him, for Legolas and the sacrifices he would make – and yet that strange sense of forewarning hit him once more – and in spite of what seemed to be a perfect morning - something was dreadfully amiss.

….

Elrond and his people left the council chambers so that the debating and voting could begin; Llyniel and Mithrandir would represent them well enough.

They had gone to Elrond's suite and there they sat, still and silent, the strange grey morning lying stagnant outside, the fire crackling suddenly as dry bark caught the flame.

"And now, we wait," said Elrond as he handed the last goblet to Glorfindel, sitting himself down beside them before the newly lit hearth, his strong, ancient, profile bathed in the orange flame, the slate grey sky contrasting starkly behind him.

"Where is Legolas?" asked Elladan.

"Out riding, he said he needed to think," explained Glorfindel softly, in shock almost at the morning's events.

"Did he say anything about what may have happened last night?" asked Elladan, his brow furrowed.

"Only that he had tried to bring Galadriel and Gildor together. He was pensive, in a strange mood – distant – as if his mind rested elsewhere…"

"Well, what a day to choose to go riding!" exclaimed Galdithion, snorting into his goblet, that shook ever so slightly. He was just as shaken as everyone else, and as Elrond cast his eyes upon his future son-in-law, he understood the wherefore of Galdithion's nervousness. He was accustomed to guarding Legolas, not to court life. He would be wishing he were out there, in the field – and he would be worried, as Elrond was, that the Forest Lord had not yet returned from his ride.

His own son seemed to understand too, for he cast furtive glances at his betrothed. Elladan had an uncannily close friendship with Legolas, one that had bloomed almost instantaneously. And now, incredible as it seemed to one that had fulfilled his destiny as Herald to Gil-Galad, his own son would now serve the new High King in that very same office. Elrond simply hoped that this king's destiny would not be the same.

"We have worked long and hard for this moment, my friends – let us hope that no one else stands against us now," said Elrond, almost as if to himself.

…..

They sat in silence as Legolas built a small fire for Arwen. They had ridden to an area towards the East, just inside Lorien's protected borders, for Legolas would not venture over them in the presence of his friend.

They had met in the stables and Arwen had immediately dismissed her guard, assuring him that Legolas would keep her well enough. He had only acceded when Doronhal placed a calming hand upon his colleague's tense shoulder, cocking his head to one side.

As it so happened, this turn of events was just what Legolas had needed for, with Arwen, he would not have to speak unless he so wished it. And if he did, she would be the best person to hear him. Thoughts of his 'political agreement' with Llyn, his childhood friend, of Gildor and Galadriel, of the heart-wrenching scene he had instigated just the previous night had left his emotions raw, he needed to find his balance once more.

He knew she understood, and thus, the silence stretched on until the shadows fell long and a chill set in, so that Legolas stoked their small fire, and Arwen handed him a cup of tea with a genuine smile that never failed to melt his heart.

"You have spoken with Llyn, I take it?" she asked casually as she sipped at her tea, her silvery eyes boring into his own from over the brim of the cup she held in both hands.

"Yes, although I fear I was not generous with her…"

"You tried to persuade her by describing the crude reality – did you not?" she asked tentatively.

Legolas stared at this, impossible, female who seemed to read his mind and yet did not.

"Yes, that is what I did. I needed to be sure she understands."

Arwen held his gaze for a moment, before looking away and sipping at her tea once more, as she continued to listen patiently to her friend.

"I told her that I would consult with my father, and Lord Aradan, and should they give their consent, then I would formalize her position as Queen Consort."

"You do not seem happy, Legolas."

"_Happy_? Did you honestly think I _would _be? My life-long friend tells me she loves me, and is prepared to give up any happiness together with one who would fill her with their heart and soul – to live eternally together with one that can only ever show her _affection_? It will break her, and I will be the one to do it, Arwen, as surely as if I had throttled her with my own, bare _hands_!"

"You still do not see, my friend," said Arwen quickly, before Legolas could continue his rant. "For all your empathy and insightfulness, you fail to understand the feelings of others when you are the object. Legolas – she has no _choice _in this, as surely as I do not. You say it is insignificant to receive only your affection, but to her, it is enough. She will not receive the love of a true lover for she would be bound to a king; yet even if she were not – she could never bind with another – can you see this? Whether you accept her or not, her suffering will not disappear, and she will never bind with anyone that is not _you._"

The words sunk slowly through to his mind – their truth settling itself firmly now, where just moments before, there had been guilt and grief. He looked up, into the sparkling grey depths of this extraordinary female, and smiled timidly, before eliminating the space between them and taking her into his protective arms, hugging her to his chest, for it hurt with love and affection for her.

"She is lucky, my friend," whispered Arwen forlornly, "for she will have something _I _can never have, and for all that I love her, I _envy _her with all that I am."

Legolas' heart twinged painfully once more. She was beautiful, and had he not been her father's lover, he would have had her – there was no doubt in his mind. Yet binding had never been an option, and the reasons remained a complete mystery to him.

The snap of a twig and a pulse of apprehension had Legolas sitting rigid, his senses on full alert. They were a little way from the trees but near enough that Legolas could feel their worry.

"Arwen, collect your gear, _now_, we are in danger…"

…

It was way past the midday meal when they had been recalled to the council chambers. By now, the whole of Lorien had heard the rumours of what was transpiring in court. They stood in fevered debate around the building, some in hushed tones, others with animated expressions of support or doubt. However, the rejection and outright hatred that Glorfindel had once detected – had simply gone.

He walked at Elrond's shoulder, with Elladan and Galdithion on the other, together with Gildor. They had received the recall with tense expectation, mixed now with the nascent anxiety of a long overdue Legolas and Arwen. Their hearts hammered in their chests and the pump of blood was almost audible.

Glorfindel walked numbly beside his long-time friend, lord and lover, yet if the voting had gone the way he rather thought it would have, those things would no longer be true, for Glorfindel would be King Consort to be, second only to the High King himself. The magnitude of it was such that his mind had sent him into a detached state of heightened sensations – strange indeed, for in spite of the unbearable weight of uncertainty, his mind saw all too clearly what transpired around it – as if the happenings of this strange morning had nothing to do with him at all.

As they passed through the crowds, they received respectful bows and curtsies, which the lords duteously returned, yet their eyes remained firmly fixed before them, except the questing blue eyes of one who had once slain a Balrog. Yet now, before this very different challenge, Glorfindel would quake like a newly-promoted cadet, had his mind allowed it.

They were finally inside, and the solid wooden doors banged closed behind them, bringing with it a shroud of silence in the wake of its echo.

Glorfindel immediately spotted Llyn, yet however much he willed her to look at him, her eyes were set firmly on some other spot. In fact, all around them, the councilor's faces gave away nothing of what they had deliberated over for the last hours. 'Why?' wondered Glorfindel. Was it disbelief at the decisions they had taken and which they would now disclose? Or was it embarrassment because they had rejected Galadriel's proposals? His heart accelerated rebelliously, until his mind took control once more and his eyes continued their search for knowledge.

The tension was becoming unbearable, for some advisors wrung their hands anxiously, others straightened their robes obsessively, and others wore that strange, detached, expression that spoke to Glorfindel again – of disbelief.

Slowly, everyone took their places and yet no one sat. Glorfindel stood where protocol – at this moment – dictated, to Elrond's right as he waited for his future to be declared, and then perhaps, everything he had ever known in this, his second life, would change.

….…..

Food could wait, but not water. Both had sustained multiple cuts and bruises from their mad flight through the trees, one that Arwen would never forget, for she had been mounted upon the Forest Lord's back, clutching to him for dear life as he hurtled through the tree tops that seemed to reach out to him as he jumped, or swung from one tree to the next. Their complicity had been absolute as Legolas moved beneath her, his muscles bunching and rippling, osmosis taking place before her very eyes as his arms seemed to extended into branches, and the branches became bridges over which they fled…

Arwen was scared, realized Legolas. Her stunning grey eyes shone round and wide, darting here and there, her breathing too accelerated, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as they rested atop a small look out they had come across.

The orcs had lost sight of them for now, but Legolas knew they had not left. They were being hunted, in no uncertain terms. This was not a casual encounter; these orcs had been given orders to capture elves. Yet where was the border guard? Legolas was perplexed, for this area was reported to be safe, and they were inside Lorien's borders, he was sure of it.

There was hardly enough room for both of them, and so he silently pushed himself up behind her, opening his legs to cradle her in his protective embrace, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling her rigid body back against his chest, resting his chin on her head.

Slowly, he felt her muscles as they relaxed, yielded to the comfort he offered her, until a steadying breath left her and she whispered softly.

"I am scared, Legolas," she admitted.

"I know," he whispered back. "And I think no less of you for it," he added, for it was the truth – Arwen possessed a strength of her own, but not in these circumstances; this was Legolas' territory.

"We will stay here a while and see what information is to be had. If they pass below us, then we can turn and make our way back. Otherwise, we will have to continue away from home for the time being."

"I understand – I trust you, Legolas," she whispered.

He pulled her tighter towards him, kissing the top of her head as he reassured her as best he could.

"I will protect you, Arwen – I will let no harm come to you," he told her, "_ever_," and he felt her smile.

"I have always loved you, Legolas, from the moment I first saw you sitting upon the lawn in Imladris – I called you 'my king', as you called me 'my queen'. I had known then, that you were my father's lover, and yet I thought perhaps to lure you to my bed. I never could though – for you would never allow it, would you?" She whispered her question rhetorically, for she already knew the answer.

"You tempt me sorely, Arwen, this I will not deny – even now, my body wishes to betray my mind – but you are right, I cannot – I _must_ not. Nay, do not ask me why – for I do not have the gift of foresight that runs in your family – I know what I know and yet I cannot reason it out."

"Then perhaps, one day," she murmured, "when all is disclosed, you and I will have one moment – together – is it too much that I ask this of you?"

Legolas' brow furrowed, unsure of whether he was interpreting her words correctly.

"You wish for us to be lovers – just once?" he asked tentatively.

"Just once, when our destinies have been unfurled and this thing we must do – is done."

"You speak as one in the throes of foresight," he prompted, wishing he could see her eyes.

"The boundaries between foresight, and insight, are sometimes impossible to separate, Legolas. Just as you are unaware of what it is that stays your hand, so am I unaware of why my words seem – right."

He breathed deeply, before answering her as honestly as he could.

"If the reasons for not taking you as a lover lift this sense of prohibition from my mind – if I do not betray anyone – then I would take you as a lover …, just once, then."

The only answer he received was a soft kiss to his arm as she rested her head back and looked towards the star-filled canopy, willing her own flesh to stop reaching out for the one she could not have…, not yet.

"They come, stay quiet now…" whispered Legolas, as his head tilted towards the forest floor, his eyes straining through the darkness for the information they needed. Numbers, races, weaponry. It was not encouraging, and the trees sent out their distress to the only one that could help their lord now…

…..

The Lords sat in quiet conversation in the Lady's personal quarters. Wine had been served yet conversation was not forthcoming, for the afternoon's events had been historical, weighty in their significance – life changing for many.

Gildor was engaged in quiet conversation with Celeborn, his now formally acknowledged brother-in-law, as Galadriel and Mithrandir talked of the intricacies and protocol of what would be the event of an age.

Elladan and Galdithion likewise, spoke of what it all meant for them and how they would solve the problem that their respective offices would bring to their relationship.

Elrond however, was silent. His finger itched and his mind was restless. Something was wrong…

"Elrond?" nudged Galadriel, now watching her son-in-law closely, "what is it?" she asked as her eyes dropped to the ring upon his finger.

"Something is amiss on the eastern borders… Arwen is in distress…"

…

"Legolas," she half whined, half bellowed, that one word laden with the terror she was feeling, for they had retraced their steps, yet in spite of their stealth, their hunters had managed to surround them.

"Arwen, stay calm, behind me, stay _strong_!" he shouted as to one of his captains, and she somehow found herself reacting, emboldened now by the rush of adrenaline Legolas' order had provoked.

There were around 20 of them, orcs for the most part, yet she had also spotted at least three Uruk Hai, one of them a strange blonde creature that had set Arwen's heart to hammering and her senses to screaming.

Unsheathing his twin knives, Legolas thrust them into Arwen's shaking hands, before unleashing Yaavan with a ring of steel, flipping a long dagger from his boot into his other hand.

"Legolas, I cannot use these – I…" panic was starting to bubble in her chest. She felt pathetic in her long skirts, lacking in any skill that could defend her from attack, ashamed of the sheer terror that now paralyzed her body, and her mind.

"_They_ do not know that, stay behind me and lash at them as best you can should they reach for you, I do not think they will kill you…" he added a little more quietly.

She wanted to cry, for what lay implicit in that last sentence – they would toy with her, rape her and then they would kill Legolas, and the world suddenly span wildly, threatening to send her crashing to the ground before any black beast had even touched her. Her breath came now in harsh gasps she could not control - she could not stand and watch as they killed him, surely she was not meant to suffer through that…

In seconds, the beasts were around Legolas and Arwen, who now stood back to back, their considerable weaponry glinting in the moonlight, reflecting momentarily off the Tengwar of Yaavan's blade, the words Arwen knew to be there, words that now recited themselves in Arwen's terrified mind, '_the Valar Command You … Yavanna protects you_…'

Arwen realized then, just before they attacked, that there _was_ something she could do. She reached out to her father, just before the guttural roar of darkness enclosed them and they were set upon and, in the background, the wrathful thrash of vegetation began.


	9. Unexpected Results

Horizon chapter 8: Unexpected Results

The group of twenty, grey-clad warriors galloped towards the East, for their comrades were nowhere to be found. 'Strange happenings,' mused their lieutenant, for it had been the Lady to alert them – no scouts had been sent out for help, there were no bodies elven or otherwise to dispose of; the eastern patrol had simply – disappeared.

They had been on the move in but seconds, worry gnawing at their guts for their fellow warriors. He glanced over at his captain, as their horses settled, their harsh breaths and snorts slowly returning to measured silence. Haldir's face was set in a dour grimace, brows slanted forwards, nostrils wide open, eyes now two glittering blue slits that promised retribution should anything have befallen his men.

Haldir turned to him then, as the others gathered around. "Send out scouts – stealth above all. We will make silent camp here until their return. Look for signs of two groups, one towards the East and the other to the West. I am also informed that Lady Arwen and Lord Legolas may be in the area, possibly in distress…"

"Aye, Captain," answered Avorn, wheeling around and signaling to the patrol, knowing well where his Captain's information had come from. 'And so, Forest Lord, we meet again…'

…..

The trees swayed and thrashed their branches this way and that, as if they would split their own thick branches in two. They reached out, far into the glade, but the one they strived to defend was too far away, having been lured away from their protective embrace by the darkness that now assailed them all, almost as if on purpose.

"_Legolaaas_!" shrieked Arwen, shrill and dry, the fruit of utter terror, as an Uruk grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, crushing her body to its own and making her gag against the putrid rags that covered its chest. Legolas swirled and jumped, sliced and hacked at anything that moved around him. Somersaulting out of the circle of orcs that had surrounded him, he ran towards the beast that held her, jumping into the air and kicking it in the head, flinging it onto the ground in a cloud of dirt, as Arwen toppled to the side, scurrying out of the way, her skirt tearing under her own foot. The fight was short, sharp and effective, for no sooner had it gained its feet, than Legolas sliced its belly before Arwen's horrified eyes, unable to rip them away from the repulsive spectacle of steaming grey innards spewing onto the forest floor. Legolas swirled around, just in time to stave off the next attack, yet unable to avoid the advance of the orcs as they made for Arwen once more, their intent more than clear.

He moved towards Arwen, painfully slowly it seemed, his eyes darting from the foes before him to his friend. He quickly dispatched one, and then flip-flopped towards her, stabbing, slicing and headbutting the orcs that were now pulling at her bodice, her ample sleeves, from all sides. She fell free once more and, mere seconds later, Legolas was engaged again; only this time, two Uruks squared themselves before him. She stood there, trying desperately to straighten her torn clothes, powerless to stop it, for she knew they used her against Legolas – _she_ was his weak point. And then their claws were upon her once more, and yet she could not rip her eyes away from him. They clashed together in a scream of steel and battle cries, silver sparks and foul spittle spraying the air around them. It was brutal, such strength pitted against each other, the blows they gave and received so hard she marveled that they had not killed each other yet, shattered each other's arms under the sheer brute force of their blows.

One Uruk landed a blow to Legolas' head that made him stumble momentarily, his boots scrambling for balance upon the uneven ground and finding it, as Arwen's heart jumped to her mouth. He whirled and kicked and then slashed until one of them fell and one remained.

The breath left her body in one, painful wheeze as she crashed to the ground and her wrists were restrained, Legolas now but a succession of sounds, somewhere close by – but not close enough…

"_Legolas…?"_ she wailed involuntarily, as a claw hoisted her skirts up to her waist and she screamed. He was there in a flash of golden hair that sliced the air around him, like a thousand punishing whips, a flying tackle taking three of the misshapen beasts to the ground with him. She could hear them but not see, for others came to take their place as she kicked and slapped and scratched with everything that she was, but the more she fought, the more they came down upon her, and as she listened intently to the thuds and grunts and groans, she felt a claw latch onto the top of her dress, at the cleavage, ripping it open to the delight of all.

Her ears began to ring and the background forest seemed to slide away from her. Her skin was strangely numb and her body felt detached, her mind floating somewhere above it, watching on as if it had nothing to do with the struggling body below. She wondered then, if she was, subconsciously, preparing herself for death. Legolas would never be able to stop it, she realized with cold clarity, as the first black hands began to rove roughly over her breasts. She felt it, but her mind had taken her to this strange place where reason and feeling had disappeared, even her hearing had gone, save for her own harsh breathing, as if her mind was telling her to concentrate only on this one, involuntary act – breathe!

A dead weight fell upon her arm and a jolt of agony from wrist to shoulder snapped her out of that strange otherworld her body had sent her to. Strangely slowly, she moved her head to the side, as the weight lifted – Legolas, who caught her eyes for but a moment, enough – she suddenly realized, enough to believe…

She slowly sat up, feeling the cold breeze on her exposed chest and reached pitifully for the remnants of her cloak, settling it around herself clumsily as her eyes came to rest upon the mighty warrior before her, the cloth of his skirts still settling into stillness around his ankles. His sword lay horizontally before his fierce face, the strange green symbols glinting off the dull black eyes of the five orcs that still stood before him. Looking at each other, they spat and hissed and cursed, yet they did not advance, for 15 of their group lay dismembered, or disemboweled. Five would stand no chance, however much they had clawed and hacked and bitten and beaten. And so, they collected their weapons and stomped into the trees, away from Lothlorien and in search of the rest of their company. Had they known of the wrath they had inspired in those that now lined their chosen path, they would have fled into open ground. Arwen watched numbly as her friend turned towards her, his eyes fixed on her face as the distant screams ceased as suddenly as they had begun, and the eaves of the forest rested once more in righteous satisfaction.

She suddenly came back to the present, time enough to bend sideways and vomit, for the stench and the carnage was unbearable; and then the surety of her own death, only to remain alive, had turned her stomach and drained her almost completely. Even as she retched, she could not quite believe they had just left, had not brutalized her.

Opening her eyes, she looked into the searching green eyes that pierced her own grey depths as warmth enveloped her body and the soft velvet of a tattered over-tunic replaced the cape that scarcely covered her bruised and scratched skin. Casting her disbelieving eyes around her, she registered the black bodies strewn across the entire area, some still alive, grunting or twitching. Her eyes wandered back to those of Legolas, wondering how it had been that he had done this thing. '_I will protect you…_' he had said, not hours before, and he had. Yet it had come with a price, for his undershirt was ripped and bloody, his hands slick with what she knew not, his hair in disarray and his body beaten and bruised.

She could feel her eyes trembling and the warmth of tears as they welled up and then spilled over, onto her marble skin, the taste of bitter bile stinging her throat.

Sniffling and pressing his bleeding nose into his shoulder, Legolas turned back to her and cupped her cheek.

"Can you walk?" he asked somewhat nasally.

"Yes… can _you_?"

He simply smiled, offering her his outstretched hand. She swayed for a moment, for her other arm would not respond, and it ached fiercely. And if the truth were to be known, she was shaken to the core, for they had almost had her, and she had yielded to death with open arms – felt her body slipping into that strange limbo she knew she would always remember. But no, she could not think on that now, they had to get out of here, back home – there would be time enough for laments, and Legolas seemed to understand, for he offered her no comfort save for that of his company. The smallest of embraces would have triggered an emotional reaction they could not afford themselves right now.

"Is it broken?" he asked, as he ripped a piece of cloth from her ruined cloak.

"Perhaps," she replied, holding out her arm so that Legolas could tie a sling. Tearing off another strip of the fine cloth, he wrapped it around his own forehead to stop the blood that continued to trickle from a crack he had taken to the side of his head. It would have to do until they were found.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly, searching his face for any signs of concussion.

"No," he smiled and then sniffled once more, "and neither are you, yet we must not dwell on that now – we must leave and keep our wits about us, there may well be more orcs still searching for us."

Arwen would ask him later, why he thought they were being hunted – for surely they had stumbled across the band quite by accident…

…

Hours later, the sky was changing from pitch black to deep blue … dawn was not far off. A tug on his hand drew his attention from the trees to Arwen, as she breathed out harshly, for pain and exhaustion were beginning to win the battle over her dwindling stamina and inborn stubbornness.

"Legolas, wait…" she begged breathlessly.

"We are not safe yet, take but a moment, my friend," he warned.

"Alright, just a moment," she said as she lowered herself wearily onto a fallen log, rolling her shoulders as she watched Legolas as subtly as she could. He stood rigid, on full alert, eerily still as he listened to something she could not perceive, yet did not doubt was there.

From his appearance now, she rather thought he would be glad for the respite – not that she had stopped for that reason. His shirt was nothing but rags, affording her a glimpse of the bruises below - and then she saw it. She turned away then, thinking she had trespassed on something she knew he would not want her to see. It had been but an accidental glimpse, yet it was more than sufficient to understand just how close he had come to death that fateful day he had confronted the mighty Red Fang in the forests of his homeland.

"Arwen, come," he said meaningfully.

She stood once more, nodding bravely, and taking the hand he offered her, squeezing it as she did in silent understanding and empathy. She was not sure he would understand why, but he did turn to look at her for just a moment, his face unreadable…

… she was floating, her body tenderly encased in warm, protective arms, the soft sound of breathing close by, and although she was bruised and sore, she wished that this fleeting moment could last a lifetime. However, the body that held her turned into hot steel of a sudden and she was pushed upwards. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw Haldir standing before her, together with his lieutenant, a complete company of warriors behind them, breaking the curtain of morning mist.

"They found you then," said Haldir, his eyes roving over Legolas and then Arwen.

"They found us," replied Legolas.

"And he _killed_ them," said Arwen, an uncharacteristic snarl contorting her angelic face.

Haldir turned back to Legolas and nodded. "We will escort you back to Caras Galadhon, my Lord, my Lady. Do you require healing before we depart?" he asked, his tone rigid and formal, a well-rehearsed voice of command that contained not a hint of the friendship he shared with them both, and Arwen was perplexed.

Legolas slowly unfurled himself, helping Arwen to her feet, both of them slow and careful, for the rest they had taken, had left their muscles stiff with fatigue and their bruises heavy and sore.

"We require nothing more than a horse for the two of us, and to be home soonest, Captain," she replied pointedly.

He seemed to understand her confusion then, for his next sentence was softer, kinder. "My Lady, are you sure you require nothing before we move out?" his eyes drifting to the makeshift sling.

"It is better for us to continue our journey rather than stop, Haldir – _I_ am glad to see you," she said sincerely.

"And we are glad to have found you, my friend, both of you," he added, his eyes lingering on the somewhat stooped form of the battered warrior behind Arwen.

She smiled then, resolving to speak to Haldir later, for it seemed that something was amiss. Her eyes wandered for a moment, to the lieutenant that stood a little behind Haldir, her smile disappearing as she noted the ambiguous glare he directed at Legolas - his intent hard to read – and she liked it not.

"Who is that," she asked Legolas as they mounted and wheeled round to join Haldir.

"Avorn," was all he said.

So _this _was the elf that had hindered and antagonized Legolas upon his arrival in Lothlorien, an injured Galdithion in his arms. The lieutenant's eyes caught her own now, as if he had heard their conversation, yet he could do no more than hold her frozen glare for mere seconds, before turning away and taking up his place. Arwen smiled to herself – she had made her point most effectively.

Yet the lieutenant surprised them both then, for as if on second thoughts, he nudged his horse over to theirs, and held out his own cloak to Legolas, who had given his to Arwen. This time, Avorn did hold Legolas' questioning eyes, nodding briskly at him and his nascent smile, and then moving back to join his patrol. It had been the silent yet unequivocal apology of a proud Noldorin warrior – no small thing, thought Arwen, as she wrapped her good arm around her savior's waist and pressed the unbruised side of her face to his back.

They rode back at a gentle canter, Arwen enjoying the nearness of him once more, the feel of hard muscle and pure strength before her. He had protected her with a ferocity that had frightened her, with a capacity to endure that went far beyond anything she had ever seen. She knew then, that he _did_ love her – her feelings _were_ reciprocated – in some small way at least, and she clung to the promise she had wrenched from him; one day, when Legolas' self-imposed prohibition had vanished, and if he did not betray anyone in its doing, he would share himself with her – just once…

…

A seemingly endless two hours later, and the sun was slowly climbing in the eastern sky. Avorn had ridden a little behind Legolas and Arwen, as per his captain's orders. Haldir hadn't said anything as such, save for his subtle nod in their direction, and his piercing eyes that told Avorn to ensure their comfort.

Indeed, Avorn had observed as surreptitiously as possible, during the ride back. The group Legolas and Arwen had encountered would have been smaller than the one that had engaged the eastern patrol, for they were both still alive. Still, Legolas had clearly battled for his life and that of the Lady's grandchild, and for that he had Avorn's respect.

Arwen obviously adored him, for she clung to him as one who knew him well, and Avorn wondered then, if she was one of the Forest Lord's many lovers… yet would he? Wondered Avorn, for it was common knowledge that the prince and Elrond were casual lovers; would he have the father and the daughter? Would they accede, knowing that to be the case? A familiar tingling in his lower gut warned him to stop thinking about elven lords and their convoluted love lives.

Yet what, exactly, had happened? The top of the lady's dress was a ruin, the lush material hanging in tatters around her waist and Legolas' own over tunic covering her upper body, and what bare skin was to be seen, was bruised and cut. And then, her trembling hands and the look of one that is lost did not bode well, and events began to take shape in Avorn's mind. Yet surely they had not, for she was alive, alert enough to have silently reprimanded him for his former treatment of her friend. A grimace invaded his fine features at the memory of that infantile slip he had made when Legolas had arrived in the woods. He had allowed his own prejudice, justified or not, to prevail over his duty, and he had sworn to himself that it would not happen again. Avorn was many things, and one of them was his position as lieutenant of the Galadhrim, a duty that was more important to him than anything else, almost, for to lose the esteem of Haldir had been the greatest punishment of all.

His thoughts were interrupted by the welcome call of the city guard and their group slowed to a walk. His brow furrowed in puzzlement at first, only to deepen into confusion, for the presence of the Lords he had expected, but not the large number of citizens who stood behind them, watching in silence.

His captain, however, did not seem perplexed at all, it seemed, as he dismounted and approached the Lady. Galadriel did not speak, but simply observed her finest warrior, before her wide blue eyes darted to her grandchild and stayed there, until they relaxed and a visible wave of relief rippled over her face.

Dismounting somewhat ungracefully, Legolas reached up and eased his friend down until her feet hit the ground, not releasing her until she stood firmly before her father and grandmother, her brother hovering off to one side.

It was then that Avorn turned, and with the rest of the patrol, moved away to their own homes. He berated himself once more for his rash treatment of one who he now rather thought had not deserved it at all. Perhaps one day, he mused, he would redeem himself.

He missed the reverence the Lady of the Wood directed at Legolas, and the deep bow from Elrond of Imladris. Elladan simply looked once more over his shoulder and smiled widely at his friend, his brother, the one he would soon call King; although in that, there would be nothing new, for to him, that is what Legolas had always been.

…

Galdithion had watched it all from Elrond's shoulder, just as Elladan had. His jaw clenched and the veins in his neck inflated and pulsed with a sudden surge of pressure. He was angry, seething if the truth be told. _Doronhal_ – Doronhal had left his charge alone with the Evenstar and both had returned battered and bruised.

'The _fool_,' he spat to himself, as he searched and found the Sindarin guard on the other side of the glade. Their eyes met, and Doronhal understood, tilting his head in silent beckoning.

"Where were you?" began Galdithion, the effort to remain calm all too clear on his sharp, unforgiving face, no intonation colouring his words at all.

"Here, waiting for his return," answered Doronhal, nonchalantly, almost.

"Why?"

"Why what?" returned Doronhal, which only served to rile Galdithion even more.

"Why were you not with him?"

Doronhal held the steely blue glare, before approaching the silently livid Silvan.

"Because he did not wish it, because he ordered it, and because he told me where he was going."

"Is that how you guarded King Oropher? You simply left when he asked you to? Is that how it happened?" asked Galdithion, finally losing the battle with his ire.

Yet even before Galdithion could check himself, a stinging blow swiped his face to one side, where he stayed for a few moments, shaking himself out of his utter stupefaction – Doronhal had hit him…

"You will not speak of that, ignorant as you are. 'Tis not what happened," he spat, before continuing his tirade. "Thus we worked in Doriath. A Lord has his guard and his guard must obey, yet so must the lord, and honour the truth of where he goes – 'tis as simple as that."

"Nay it is not," said Galdithion quietly as he wiped at his bleeding lip. "Legolas is not Oropher, this, is not Doriath. You must learn of your new charge, Doronhal, not only of him, but what it would mean to Middle-earth should he fall. If he orders you to stay, you wait and follow, and if you should encroach upon a private moment, you retire to the trees and turn your back but you _guard _him, Doronhal, you guard him with your _life,_ for if you do not, I will come for you," he whispered finally, his piercing blue eyes penetrating those of Doronhal, who returned it defiantly.

Finally, it was Doronhal who moved back a little, his eyes falling away to the side.

"Your love for him honours you."

Galdithion simply nodded, before taking one step back and moving to leave – he had said his piece, and accepted the blow as penance for what he now realized was, at best, an uneducated guess at what had happened to Legolas' grandfather, and for letting his own fear override his sense of fairness.

Yet Doronhal's quiet voice stayed his retreat once more.

"Never doubt that I will guard him with my life – for he is Oropher's grandchild, future High King," he added then, almost as an afterthought, "and should you ever wish to know what truly happened, you will be welcome in my Talan – "

Again, Galdithion did not answer, he was too angry to even consider the guard's offer, yet unlike before, his anger was now directed at himself.

….

Glorfindel sat before a roaring hearth, the warm, slanted rays of a fading sun warming his back and making him drowsy.

The day had been eventful, and his stomach lurched when he realized that Legolas still did not know of the happenings that very morning in the council chambers. He would tell him as soon as he woke from the deep slumber that had taken him. He had battled to stay awake, yet no sooner had he bathed and undressed, his eyes closed of their own accord and he had snuggled under the fresh linen of their bed. That had been many hours ago.

Haldir had visited earlier to give Glorfindel the Lorien guard's findings, findings that would require his attention due to the disturbing implications. It was now clear to both warriors that Arwen and Legolas had been hunted purposefully. The eastern patrol had been lured away from their area, towards the borders, where they had finally outwitted and dispatched their pursuers, yet not soon enough to return to their territory and avoid what happened later – it had been a distraction. Haldir also expressed his puzzlement, for the number of carcasses was too great for the Forest Lord to have dealt with by himself. And then, they could find no elven tracks at all. To this, Glorfindel had explained that Legolas had most likely taken to the trees, aware as he would be, of the existence of a second group. However, Haldir remained skeptical, pointing out that Legolas would be capable of such a thing, but Arwen would not.

Glorfindel pondered this, alone now as he was. He knew what Legolas had done – he had carried her – that was why he was so tired, why he had those strange bruises upon his flanks.

A soft knock had Glorfindel peering around the door, only to find Elrond standing there, his face unreadable as he drifted into the main living area. A quick glance off to the right told the healer that Legolas slept, soundly it seemed, for his arrival would not have gone unnoticed otherwise.

"Come," murmured Glorfindel, as he took Elrond's arm and steered him to the cushions, before the fire. The Lord of Imladris sunk to the floor, leaning one elbow against the mountain of cushions as he accepted the goblet that was placed in his hand.

"How is she?"

"Surprisingly well, Glorfindel. She spoke but a little of what happened – I did not wish to push her in her state. Yet the details she gave me, speak of great hardship, and strange happenings. They were hunted, Glorfindel, and – there was a mutant…" he trailed off, taking a hungry gulp of his wine.

Glorfindel breathed out noisily, yet he did not speak, for Elrond had not finished.

"They almost had her, Glorfindel," whispered Elrond fiercely, desperately, "and when she arrived, beaten and bedraggled, her face was that of Celebrian and my soul cried out in agony – until," he swallowed noisily, "until I saw the spark in her eyes and the light of the Eldar, bright and brilliant in her aura…"

"I would never have allowed it, Elrond – _never_," said Legolas, startling the two lords with his silent arrival. It had been said quietly, yet the words had been infused with a determination – a surety - that chilled the healer's blood.

Glorfindel watched him as he sunk down onto the cushions slowly, sighing as he stretched his legs out before him, the silken gown that covered his otherwise naked form slipping around his shoulders.

He looked wild, and yet utterly elegant, feral and yet pristine, shining beneath the beaten flesh and the tangled hair…

"Here," said Glorfindel, handing him a generous goblet, which Legolas took to his lips immediately, staining them a blood red as his eyes wandered to the hissing orange flame.

"How is she?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Well enough, considering – her arm is broken –" said Elrond.

"I know, I broke it…" he mumbled again.

"You broke it…" said Glorfindel flatly.

"I fell on her – I lost my balance."

Silence followed Legolas' confession, before Elrond turned his face to the Forest Lord's profile, his ringed hand resting lightly upon the warrior's forearm. Elrond's vision turned inwards, his eyes losing focus, and Glorfindel knew well what he did. So, it seemed, did Legolas, for he moved not, said nothing.

Finally withdrawing his hand, the healer smiled lightly and turned his head to Glorfindel.

"Can you arrange for water and food? We shall take the evening meal here with you, Legolas, for you have a story to tell, and…" he paused, that subtle smile back once more, "… and so do _we_," he finished, watching as Legolas' brow creased fleetingly.

"What do you mean, what has happened?" asked the Forest Lord, his gleaming eyes locking onto the healer, as Glorfindel watched, his stomach lurching uncomfortably as he braced himself for Legolas' reaction to what Elrond would now say.

"Legolas, your meeting with the lady and with Gildor, has brought with it some – unexpected results…"


	10. Culmination

Chapter nine: Culmination

It was warm, and the homely smell of burning wood came to him. He felt the touch of soft, pristine cloth beneath him, smooth under his hand as it slowly moved upwards to his head, and the rougher fabric that bound it. His skull throbbed in time to his heart and his body warned him not to move, for it would surely hurt.

Turning his head to the side the soft, waning light closed his pupils only slightly, for dusk was upon them. He breathed deeply, realizing sluggishly that he must have slept through the day.

He moved his bare legs tentatively below the sheets, feeling the pull of overstrained muscles; nothing a massage would not take care of, he mused somewhat demurely, smiling at the possibilities. And then Arwen appeared before his mind's eye and he called her name.

Moments later, glorious, golden hair filled his vision and Glorfindel's scent enveloped him in a shroud of loving care.

"Legolas…"

"Umm..," he replied. Arwen?

"Is well, with Elrond and Galadriel. You slept long…"

"Yes," he said quietly, sitting himself up slowly and reaching for a long, silken robe that lay draped across the bed.

Slipping into it somewhat gingerly, he rose from the bed and moved to the hearth, sitting just as carefully in a large armchair that stood a little to one side. It was comfortable, and warm, and Arwen was well. The only thing missing was food, he realized. And then his stomach lurched violently as he suddenly remembered the conversation from the previous day.

Elrond had retold the story of the council chambers; how Galadriel had explained their meeting with Gildor, deep in the forests. He had spared no gesture, no flourish of intonation – he was pure enthusiasm, radiating an almost puerile delight at the long-awaited outcome of his hard-laboured plans. This was a side to Elrond that he rarely showed and, as far as Legolas was aware, only ever manifested before his two lovers.

Legolas however, had felt somewhat overcome, albeit it had not shown - proud that he was. Glorfindel however, was well aware of his feelings, and it had not been long after, that he found himself fed, sated, and falling into a deep sleep – his eyes slowly closing on Glorfindel and Llyniel as they chatted quietly to each other, as friends, he mused; 'good', he thought, 'very good indeed'.

A goblet appeared before his unfocused eyes, eyes that quickly sharpened onto those of Glorfindel, who stared back at him, smiling softly and sitting down on a chair opposite Legolas.

"There were, indeed, two groups. One led the eastern patrol on a merry chase – on purpose, it seems – a distraction…"

"I knew we were being hunted, Glorfindel, and your words confirm that. They had orders, and a purpose – I saw a mutant, Glorfindel – their leader, without a doubt," he said, wincing as his split lip pulled uncomfortably.

Glorfindel's face darkened at the mention of mutants. He had heard the story of the Company's capture and torment, both from Legolas and Elladan, was reminded of it every day by the white scar upon his lover's shoulder. Since then, only two further sightings had been made. They were still a mystery, except that they were stronger, and more intelligent than their Uruk Hai brothers, and they always seemed to appear when a plan was in motion.

"Legolas…"

"Um?"

"Who would even know of your improvised ride with Arwen?

"Indeed, this is the question, is it not? However improbable it may seem, I would suggest -_sorcery_, Glorfindel…" he said carefully.

Glorfindel frowned at this, for those able to carry out such a scheme could be counted on the fingers of one hand – one of the Ainur, or some, unknown element yet to reveal itself.

"But that means…"

"Yes, I know, disconcerting is it not? They can either see from afar, or 'tis someone who shares my ability…"

The room grew quiet, and Legolas knew Glorfindel was thinking the same as he was. A seeing stone, or a wizard – a rogue wizard.

A knock against the screen hailed the timely arrival of Mithrandir, who walked straight to where Legolas sat, catching his eyes and holding them, watching as they shone with life and intelligence, trepidation and just a touch of insecurity.

Mithrandir smiled kindly then, as he was not often wont to do, an open, fatherly smile that Legolas rather thought spoke of love, and… pity? Well, who could blame him, he mused. Being king would cage him, would distance him from those around him, from his family in the Greenwood – it was not Legolas' way, and Mithrandir knew this.

"I have been sent by your _lackeys_ to collect you for the evening meal," he said curtly, apparently affronted by the fact that he had been sent as a messenger.

"However, you do look frightful, child – you would not be remiss if you were to not attend," he said more kindly now, as he accepted Glorfindel's offering of wine.

"Nay, I should go – I must face this sooner, rather than later, Mithrandir. Besides, we should talk – there is much to be discussed, about the attack, and about… well,"

"The coronation," said Glorfindel flatly, knowing well how uncomfortable it was making his lover.

"Yes, that," he said irritably, waving his hand in the air, just as his kingly father always did. Realizing mid-flourish, he grinned somewhat ruefully at his involuntary imitation of his father, one that had not gone unnoticed, as Mithrandir guffawed and slapped his knee.

"You cannot escape it, Prince," he began, yet his face became serious once more. "You were born for this, educated for this, 'tis your destiny."

Legolas stared back at him, equally seriously. "And will you come with me? Accompany me on this journey? Advise me, fight with me?"

"I will follow you, king of elves, to whatever end – you have my staff."

Legolas smiled mischievously, before breaking the solemn silence, "have a care with your words, wizard…"

And now, it was Glorfindel to throw his head back and laugh, as the Maia swiped at the forest lord with his rumpled grey hat, enveloping them both in a cloud of dust.

…

Dinner turned out to be a private affair in the Lord and Lady's chambers – private, at least in a sense, for Elladan and Galdithion were there, as well as Arwen and Gildor who sat together in quiet discussion.

Serving elves moved around the room, procuring the lords and ladies with light wines and aperitifs, their faces serene, eyes set downwards, never meeting the ones they served, save for in those rare moments in which they could look without being seen, and marvel at the beauty of them all.

They stood or sat, sipping on wine and talking affably together, yet the air was charged with expectation. Plans would be discussed this night, and all wished to be a part of the debate for, here in this chamber, were the instigators, the architects of what was to come.

Silence fell as Legolas arrived, with Glorfindel and Mithrandir at his side. He looked beautiful, mused Elladan. Dressed in a finely tailored, calf-length tunic of rich burgundy, his black boots disappearing under the exquisitely embroidered hem. His hair was tied away from his face, the beaded tips dancing around his hips invitingly. The bruises upon his face were fading and there was a sparkle to his extraordinary green eyes that brought to mind a cut emerald under the morning sun.

Breaking all protocol, Legolas walked towards Arwen, who stood to greet him. They moved towards each other, Legolas' arms hugging her form fiercely as her own face – turned towards the room – reflected what Elladan thought must be a little of the anguish she had felt during their ordeal, or perhaps it was that which was to come; for of them all, it was his sister who had inherited most of their grandmother's gift.

No words passed between them and, as Legolas held her at arm's length, his unspoken question and her equally silent answer were plain to all in the room.

Elladan marveled at this singular relationship which, if one did not know better, could easily be mistaken for one between lovers. Indeed he was convinced there were undercurrents that transcended the boundaries of brotherly affection.

Galadriel was the first to break the moment, yet instead of returning Legolas' respectful bow, she placed both hands on his shoulders, and reached up to kiss his forehead, before stepping back and holding his eyes; a public gesture of gratitude, mused Elladan.

"You have questions – doubts," she anticipated correctly, to which Legolas nodded as he accepted a goblet from Celeborn, who smiled kindly at his Sindarin kin, as he had always done since the first day they had met.

He stood there, apparently unsure of where to begin – it was one of those rare moments in which Legolas seemed to Elladan to be of an age with himself and Galdithion – adults, young adults with experience far beyond their years, and yet not enough to have acquired the resulting wisdom.

The others settled around him now, eyes anchored on the pensive forest lord as he began to give voice to his misgivings; indeed it would be his last opportunity to do so for, after today, the cogs would begin to whirl and there would be no stopping them.

"My first question is – if I am to be high king – what of Ingwë in Valinor? Indeed what of Finarfin – your father, my Lady? You may laugh but the question is valid," he added somewhat defensively, a hint of his relative youth colouring his words.

"I know not, Legolas, I can only assume that my father will remain as king of the Noldor in Amman, it does not have to be incompatible," said Galadriel, "for you are to be king in Ennor."

"Indeed, if the Valar have seen fit to invest a king to unite the people of Ennor, I would suggest they have taken this into consideration – extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures - 'tis what we need to defeat _him_," added Elladan, who was perched upon the edge of his seat, just as Erestor was wont to do. He had been uncharacteristically bold, but then he had been emboldened by recent events, and by the weight of the responsibility that would soon be his to carry out – Herald to the High King, just as his father had been, and a fleeting glance in Elrond's direction confirmed Elladan's supposition that his father had heartily approved.

"Alright, I can see your point, and – I assume that the Lady Yavanna speaks for all the Valar…"

"Never doubt that, Legolas. She can take no unilateral decisions in these matters. This issue has been raised and approved by the High Council – you have my word," assured Mithrandir.

Legolas held his gaze with his own intense, searching eyes. This was the reassurance he seemed to have been seeking, for Elladan could almost see his misgivings as they slid from his face, his expression turning from one of controlled anguish to equally controlled relief.

It was Celeborn who astutely read beneath Legolas' façade of cool acceptance.

"You do not believe it, and so your mind strives to find objections – nay, I do not judge you," he added, holding up his hand for silence before anyone could express their objections. "I cannot hope to feel what you feel now, Legolas, and yet the slightest intent leaves my stomach churning – I believe – I believe that I understand you – yet _hear _me, cousin…

"You are not _taking_ the throne – it has been assigned to you, of that, the Lords of Arda are witness. Remember this, in your moments of doubt."

Legolas would have responded, had he been given the time, but Gildor now stood before him, searching the Forest Lord's green eyes as if reading a book. Then, quite suddenly, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, before the stupor of all.

"Even had it not been so, even had the powers not ordained this – I would have followed you anyway," said Gildor solemnly. "I had grown skeptical of this world, this age; of my own, unfortunate circumstance that did but embitter my character even more. You – you have delivered me from a life of rejection and self-pity, onto a path towards honour and meaning – I wish to serve in this new army, in any way you see fit – I would accompany you – to whatever end.

The determined words fuelled Elladan's now unbearable desire to publically pledge his own sword. "I too, follow you; you have always been my Commander, my King."

Legolas stood before them – oh so tempted to take them both in his arms and show his feelings – yet he could not, for his father's face popped into his mind and he stood his ground, steeled his face and his body, and smiled serenely, tilting his head only slightly, yet the broiling sensations shone brightly behind his eyes, and the elders smiled in indulgent joy.

…

And so the weeks passed. Letters where drawn up and sent, to the elven, dwarven and human communities, even to The Shire and the elusive hobbits that dwelled and farmed there – however they did not expect any answers from them, nor indeed from any that were not elven. Relations with the second born had been long neglected, yet invite them they must.

It had been Llyniel and Legolas to come up with an idea that had Elrond both proud, and frankly impressed. How to motivate their attendance? How to involve them in this event, so that future alliances could be made a little easier?

The dwarves had been offered the honour of styling the High King's crown, as a commission. They had sent drawings of Yavanna's crown for the Forest Lord, explaining that it had been wrought by Lord Aulë himself, although whether they would believe that was debatable at the very least. To the race of men, they had spoken of the possibility of new trade routes and agreements, of increased collaboration in their common goal against the enemy. Whether it would be enough to whet their appetites was, indeed, unlikely; yet the political initiative had been worthy of applause.

It had been decided that the coronation would take place in Lothlorien, for it was midway between Imladris and the Greenwood, albeit Mithlond would have the longest journey. Legolas had accepted with good grace; he had expected this, yet it had ended any and all hope he could ever have had regarding his father's presence, and although he would not let it show, it burned deep in his chest, for himself and for his father.

Galdithion and Llyniel understood more than most, for they knew well the relationship between king and prince. Indeed Legolas was often to be found in their company, or together with Arwen and Elladan, whilst the elusive Doronhal, would perch himself in a nearby tree, or patrol the area in which his future king passed his time. Galdithion was well pleased with this, and had oftentimes caught the eyes of the elf from Doriath, a respectful tilt of the head showing his utter approval.

As for Gildor, he spent much time with Celeborn and his sister, Galadriel. She had presented him with a finely wrought circlet that had belonged to Finrod, claiming that now it was Gildor who should wear it. He did, however timidly, for he was not accustomed to the protocol of lords, and yet he rather thought it would not take great hardships to become so. Somehow, it came almost naturally to him, albeit he had spent the last few centuries scoffing at protocol – indeed he could not rid himself of the inbred nobility of his line, one that had, finally, been recognized.

…

The letters were well-traced, elegant, yet not especially so. The writing was not perfect, even though its sender was – almost – at least to him. He had never told him that, and never would, and yet he knew it to be so.

The lines were strong, bold, balanced in size and proportion, such that it brought to mind the sender once more, for they illustrated his character so well. Here and there, the tail or head of a figure would be extended just a little beyond what tradition would dictate – passion, strong emotions that sneaked through the discipline of Tengwar, branding the parchment with the essence of the one who created them.

He set the crisp parchment upon his study table for a moment, as the strong white hand reached for the ornate decanter to one side. Pouring the ruby liquid slowly, pensively, into his goblet, he reached for the missive once more and moved into the beam of blue, dust-filled light that shone through his window and onto the exquisitely woven carpet under his booted feet.

Standing in the warmth for a moment, his brilliant blue eyes turned downwards once more, onto the symbols that stood to attention before him.

… _now that it has happened, now that there is consensus – only now – do I truly understand the weight of it…_

The weight, yes, the sheer, unyielding mass of rock that sat upon the chest and set the gut to churning, the onus of responsibility. He remembered it so well, for it had happened to him thousands of years before, in the wake of Oropher's downfall.

His eyes followed the lines of well-formed letters but now, they did not seem so regimental to his discerning eyes. The shapes were no longer so balanced, uniform, but the tips and toes were higher, the dots and accents a little more … uncontrolled. Feelings, deep rooted and heart-felt were beginning to bloom inside the Tengwar as the letter progressed.

… _the lives of thousands, in silent submission to one who must decide their fates…_

Yes, but their submission was not silent, but consented – there was a difference, he knew, one he would need to remember to point out, for it would help, help him understand.

The velvet against his back was warm and he breathed deeply, relishing the physical comfort for a moment, before turning and sitting in the chair below the window and crossing his legs, feeling the silk of his skirt slip sideways and his bare skin kissed by the morning sun.

He sipped on his wine as the written words fell into perfect harmony with his own experience. So alike in so many things. The thought made him snort and a brief smile flitted over his thin, determined lips – of course they would be, for these were the words of his disciple, his advantaged student.

He closed his eyes for a moment, for he wished to relish what was left of the Tengwar, for history was written here, and he was the first to know it – here in the Greenwood.

… _I know you cannot, will not attend … and yet to feel your hand upon the metal that will bind me to my destiny …_

A sad yet satisfied smile graced his lips, for perhaps it was true, and yet to do that one thing would truly be the culmination of his life…

Thranduil's eyes turned to the portrait of the first great king of the Greenwood. His eyes strayed momentarily to the blond warrior that stood in the background, for his face had always drawn his attention. He was guarding his ward, his expression hard and determined – and yet there was something more, something in those fierce, expressive eyes that he could not place.

The one he guarded stood in the foreground - tall and arrogant, his jaw clenched in defiant anger, a long pike held loosely in his hand. It spoke, that expression, as clearly as any words could ever do. '_Never be cowed, confront your enemies, never back down, face life boldly…'_

Oropher had done just that, and had paid the price that comes with extremes. 'So alike, and yet not so', he mused once more; yet whether he spoke of himself or his father, he could not say.

… '_tis done, almost, and then I will travel home for a while, before everything takes me away from you, and the Evergreen wood of my heart…_

It had been over two thousand years since he had stepped foot outside his forest domain, telling himself that he could not be spared, that the people needed him here, for there were others to carry out his political needs abroad – a king owed himself to his people.

He glanced once more at the portrait of his father, guiltily almost. _'…face life boldly… '_

After but a moment of realization, King Thranduil stood resolutely, and strode to the door, opening it rather abruptly, only to find Aradan, Lainion and Galion standing in the hallway, eyes wide as young elves caught red-handed in some ignoble deed.

"Lord Aradan – tend to me now," he ordered, garnering a brisk nod from his chief advisor, and a resigned glance between Galion and Lainon, who reluctantly went about their business, both wondering if the letter, that had been delivered earlier that day, contained the news they had all been waiting for. And if it did, and its contents were those they had equally been awaiting, then what would their Lord decide? Would this be enough to break over two thousand years of self-imposed isolation?

…

One of the biggest surprises in Elladan's life had come in the form of a letter from the White City. Ecthelion, the young Steward of Gondor in person, would be attending the coronation. They had expected the delegation from Esgaroth, of course, but never in their wildest dreams had they thought to receive Gondor.

The lords and their diplomats were unsure as to how to interpret this gesture; it was, perhaps, curiosity and a need for intelligence on their distant neighbours – and, then again, it could be a move towards friendship and the desire for a closer bond between the races. It was more likely, however, that it was the lure of lucrative trade agreements that Legolas and Llyniel had worked into the undoubtedly attractive invitation. Elladan had been impressed that the initiative had actually proved successful, leaving them with this unique opportunity to begin the unification – the very reason behind everything they now planned.

After the acceptance of Galadriel had been assured, Elrond had stepped back from the vanguard, explaining that, now, it fell to the Herald and the king's Chief Advisor to carry out such duties. Elladan had been overjoyed, if not somewhat apprehensive, for he was first and foremost a warrior. He knew he would never lose his father's counsel, and glad he was of it, for it would surely be needed.

He had been working more closely with Llyniel too, and had found her most suited to the post that Legolas had assigned to her. She was tenacious, shrewd, and much more aware of political maneuverings and plotting than he was. Together, they would make a formidable team and the thought fleetingly wrenched a smile from Elladan's lips, until it fell away when he remembered their goal – Mairon.

…

He had pushed himself – hard, for that was the only way to take his mind away from the impending ceremony. After an entire morning of running, sparring and vaulting, Legolas was ready to bath and change, and then take a short rest before lunch. News was arriving daily now, and so he had fallen into the routine of taking a 'working lunch' with his closest collaborators. Yet his role was mostly passive, leaving the intricacies of protocol to Llyniel, who had learned the art well, at the knee of her father, Chief Advisor to Thranduil himself. Yet she had taken her future role of Chief Advisor to the High King most seriously, and often chose to defer to Elrond, taking note, it seemed, of every word, every nuance, every gesture that the Lord of Imladris made – she was preparing herself, and Legolas was most pleased.

Thus wondering what the day would yield, he walked purposefully back to his suite, nodding and smiling to those he passed along the way. How it had all changed, in but a scant few months, he mused.

Entering hastily, his mind still far away, he closed the door behind him, and stopped short. Glorfindel, bent over a stack of papers upon the worktable, was as naked as the day he was born. Legolas stood still, chest still heaving from his exertions, staring as his eyes observed the fall of long, wavy locks around muscled shoulders, draping decadently over the wooden surface, his muscled back and then pert buttocks, one sitting higher than the other as the warrior rested one leg.

For the full, unadulterated version of this chapter, please visit Faerie at efiction dot esteliel dot de


	11. Second Dawn of the Sylvans

Chapter 10: Second Dawn of the Sylvans

Elladan and Galdithion walked leisurely through the outer gardens that were now bathed with the blue sheen of a waxing gibbous moon. It made the Noldo's hair glow a silky blue, reminding Galdithion of the scene he had recently chanced upon, unbeknownst to Elladan – liquid onyx indeed, he mused, as his eyes continued to rove admiringly over his lover's body. Smiling, he turned away, finally breaking the peaceful silence that had so far accompanied them on their after-dinner stroll.

"I wonder why Legolas and Glorfindel did not attend dinner," said Galdithion, somewhat rhetorically as his eyes strayed to the trees around them, as if of their own accord.

"I would wager they were – engaged," said Elladan, his smirk showing Galdithion exactly what he meant by the word. "Legolas has been most restless of late. He trains hard, boisterously, almost – and who can blame him?" he asked, the smirk fading from his face.

"Not I," answered Galdithion as his eyes now scanned the glade they had just walked into, swiveling here and then there, raking the territory around them, peering into the tree tops.

"You search for Doronhal?" said Elladan with exaggerated intonation, apparently amused. Galdithion did not answer, however, but simply smiled instead as he conceded the unspoken point. He just could not abandon centuries of security routines, protocols, an almost inbred need to protect his charge. He needed more time, time to hand over the baton to Doronhal and get on with his own, new duties, for he had much to learn if were to be useful as the Greenwood Constable.

"He fancies you," said Elladan bluntly, smiling cheekily as he slipped a nut into his mouth, crunching on it merrily as he waited for the inevitable. Galdithion's head whipped around to face him as if startled, a scowl of utter incomprehension screwing up his face.

"Doronhal? You jest, surely!" he almost shouted, for the notion was absurd, wasn't it?

"I do not – he wants you, I can tell," replied the Noldo, chewing heartily on the earthy, creamy nut, no trace of doubt upon his face.

"Ah…," said Galdithion, now considering the truth of Elladan's statement. He had not seen it, had not perceived the slightest of advances, no lingering gazes or unnecessary brushes against him – and yet his o-so-perceptive lover seemed to have no doubts at all.

"He is … _interesting_, think you not?" asked the dark elf as his lover continued to ponder the issue. The question was bold, brash almost, as if goading Galdithion into seeing the enigmatic elf from Doriath in a new light.

"I have never seen him in that way, Elladan …"

"Then _look_ – closely now. He is tall, strong - the body beneath that uniform must be hard and well-muscled. He is exotic – Sindarin – in every way… nice hair …" he added almost as an afterthought, tossing another nut into his mouth playfully.

"Elladan, what are you saying – I mean if you wish to bed him, you know I have no issues with that…, I am _Sylvan_ for the love of Arda!"

"Wait," interrupted Elladan, humour and enjoyment bubbling under the surface of his words, a tiny chunk of nut flying free from his mouth and making him giggle for a moment.

"Think, Sylvan – Good body, nice hair, what more could you wish from a casual lover? Plus, we have not indulged in another for some time…"

"You suggest we seduce him then?"

"Nay, for I do not think that will be necessary, I believe he will be more than willing."

Galdithion thought about it then, and promptly remembered the conversation he had had with Doronhal just recently. Indeed, the guard, after delivering a stinging blow to Galdithion's disbelieving face, had invited him to his talan, supposedly to talk of the fall of Oropher. Now, that seemingly innocent invitation took on a whole new perspective, and for the first time he began to see what Elladan claimed so confidently to be true.

Turning to Elladan, a mischievous smile blossomed on Galdithion's face, one that was mirrored by Elladan – it would be a welcome distraction from the weighty matters of state that had occupied their entire time of late – it was time for a little … indulgence.

Pivoting on his heel, Galdithion pushed Elladan into a nearby tree and took his lips in a searing kiss, pressing his body into that of his lover as he sunk his strong hands into the inky hair, down to its very roots.

"I will relish watching as you are given pleasure, worshipped as you deserve," whispered Galdithion, before liking down the side of Elladan's neck.

"And will you do naught but watch, Sylvan?" murmured Elladan deep in his throat, as his neck was devoured in a rain of hot, harsh kisses.

The only answer he received was a squeeze to his growing sex and a bite to the ear. Doronhal would have to wait for another day. For now, this Noldo was his.

…..

Frosted breath streamed rhythmically from his half-open mouth, framed by dark pink lips that curved upwards, accentuating his upper lip sensuously. Exertion was evident on his reddened face, and his eyes glittering like ice crystals melting under the winter sun. He felt strong, energized, at peace with himself, prouder than he had ever felt of his home, of his long-suffering people.

He wheeled his snorting, prancing warhorse around until he faced those behind him, his hair flowing around him like liquid honey before beating against his silk-clad torso and settling. He smiled subtly, albeit there was a lingering sadness behind it - one that induced a crushing melancholy and set the eyes to burning – a smile Henian knew all too well.

Casting his eyes around their caravan, the Greenwood's co-commander marveled at the sight before him, for his people seemed to shine this day as he had only rarely seen. Joy, it was joy they radiated, joy that lit them up and curved their mouths into contagious smiles. It did not surprise him, how could it? For he, too, was under the spell. They would finally find their place amongst the Noldor – equal in all things, no longer thrice-forgotten in the north-eastern reaches, hidden behind a wall of towering wood. One of their own would rule them all, and now, they travelled to witness this, the second dawn of the Sylvans, the return to the days of glorious splendour.

He smiled indulgently at himself for this rare moment of almost puerile fantasizing. The days were darkening and they would all soon be at war, yet he could not help it. There was something in the air that lifted his soul; that purged the heaviness of warfare and grief.

Behind their leader, other dignitaries and notable members of the Greenwood society sat proudly atop their own mounts – lords, politicians, merchants, and musicians – many, many musicians. Yet one elf was missing, one Henian knew would be sorely missed in Lorien, their final destination, and then his smile faltered for a moment.

Casting his gaze further back, he observed the host of warriors that fanned out behind the civilians. They had dressed in their formal uniforms, polished the metal of their daunting helms of forest twists, their vambraces of intricately carved vines, and blades that had seen so much, that had severed so many limbs, sliced through skin, bone and flesh. They had cared for the emerald green velvet of their sashes that now shimmered as they flapped in the frigid air. They should have been daunting, stunning in their arrogant defiance and yet Henian smiled once more, wider than before – so much so that it threatened to become a laugh.

He breathed deeply, steadying himself as his eyes continued their journey. All in all, their caravan was made up of no less than three hundred Sylvan, Sindarin and Avarin elves. They rode together, harmonious, in a union of brotherhood that could only come about through shared hardship. And yet they were so utterly different in their physical factions, even the warriors, dressed identically though they were. Some had the cool white skin of the Noldor and the Sindar, while others had skin the colour of toasted bread, or milk and cinnamon. Some had eyes of blue, grey or light green, yet others were painted a vivid amber, earthy brown and even inky black. Hair too varied dramatically, not only the colours of black, brown, chestnut or yellow, but its texture and decoration, even its length. Some wore their hair loose, save for a simple clip at the crown, while others braided or twisted it, leaving it thus for months on end. For some it reached to their shoulders, while others wore it longer, much much longer.

They were strangely quiet, mused Henian, yet there was a broiling, bubbling thrum, a turbulent nervousness they tried and succeeded for the most part, in controlling. Not completely, however, for its vibration rippled and pulsed on the surface, reached in and around one to the other, like wisps of early morning mist.

Henian smiled openly as he cast his eyes to the very end of their group. There, cloaked and hooded, sat nine warriors upon their steeds. Their faces were covered, their attire impossible to discern under their grey-green cloaks, yet their forearms gave them away, not only to their people but to all warriors both green and tried; there was no mistaking the bands of leather and brass, silver and gold that covered their battle-scarred skin. Runes, charms and status symbols that told of friends lost, of great beasts slain, of mighty feats achieved. These, were the warriors of The Company. A shiver ran through the Greenwood commander as he turned his eyes back to the fore and urged his own mount forward once more, his skin still prickling uncomfortably, yet sure in the knowledge that nothing bad would come from the rear.

How good it would be to see his childhood friends once more; Galdithion, a Lord no less now, and Greenwood's Constable in the united army, so his friend had timidly informed him in his last letter. Llyniel, soon to be chief advisor to the High King, and his consort. And Legolas himself, mischievous, adventurous, arrogant and noble, lover of the Golden Sacrifice – his stomach tingled at the thought of being reunited with them, for in no one else's company could he feel so comfortable, so loved, so important.

How far they had come, how much they had achieved, for in spite of their fertile imaginations, they could never have imagined this much. But would their friendship change? Would these, monumental events wrench them away from him? Taken by duty from his side? Henian knew he could not follow, for his own duty lay with the king of the Greenwood, commanding his army – because without Legolas, Henian was indispensible, or at least so it seemed to him.

Sadness descended over him as he realized that he travelled to witness a celebration that would bring him heart break – it was bittersweet, yet all the more beautiful for it - and right. There was hope for them now, hope, despite the heart-wrenching news from the Southern reaches of Greenwood, and it would come at the hand of a Sylvan.

…

It had been many years since he had passed the frontiers of the Hidden Valley, bound as he was to her by duty and honour.

In his time, he had had his fair share of warfare and days upon the road, although many would not believe him should he ever have the inclination to speak of it. Elrond, Glorfindel, Cormion, the elder members of their community knew it for truth, for they had been there, seen with their own eyes, suffered their own grief. And yet Erestor was aware of the fact that he had grown – soft – unaccustomed to a life of travelling. He had become an elf of discipline and routine, somewhat manic with his belongings, irritable should they be misplaced. Now, he would most likely be unable to find his brush in the large trunk he had selected for the journey, and his backside would surely ache after but a day of riding. It was lamentable, yet the young Thandion would surely remedy his pains most effectively, Erestor smirked to himself – the young healer had proven himself most effectively, and repeatedly, and not only as an able disciple and masseur.

How life had changed over the centuries he had spent in Imladris; not negatively, mind. It was simply different, for gone were the days of glorious battle and chivalry, and in its place had reigned the peace of Imladris, and Vilya. Now, however, all that would change, for they were finally moving against Sauron, albeit they were still in the early stages of their master plan, where diplomacy and a sharp mind would be the skills he would need, not only for Imladris, but for all Elvendom, for he would surely be called upon to give council and advice.

Casting his eyes around him, he smiled once more at Thandion's dreamy face, before spotting Eruanna and her Sylvan husband, Calanon. They were chatting light-heartedly between themselves, bubbly laughter escaping them every now and again as they shoved each other lovingly. He had heard the tale of their young love – how Eruanna had come to know Legolas through her father Gaerwyn, Imladris' chief cook. She had promptly signed up for the cultural exchanges and travelled to the Greenwood, where she had met and fallen in love with Lord Aradan's cousin Calanon, a young forester of the Evergreen Wood, whatever that was.

Not far from the young lovers, rode Lindir, Amanthor and Mentathiel – the inseparable trio of renowned musicians who were sure to have composed a mighty symphony for the occasion.

Their composition for the crowning of the Forest Lord had fast become a classic, yet it was seldom reproduced, for it required nigh on 20 string musicians and many trained voices. They would need that and more on this occasion, he was sure, for this was a coronation, the investment of a High King, an event that was playing havoc with his emotions, for it had sparked his memory, had opened the carefully guarded gates of his deeper, darker experiences; things long past that he would not speak of.

His eyes then caught sight of Mentathiel, the Avarin Spirit Singer – unique in her ability to capture emotion and imprint it in song. All who heard her could never forget the wrenching emotion she provoked – it was, quite simply, primeval, transcendental – deeply moving. Amanthor, the Greenwood bard, had tried and failed to explain, for it was not until Mentathiel had sung through the regeneration of Celebrian's gardens, that they had truly understood.

His eyes finally came to rest upon master healer Balentar, who had also travelled to the Greenwood, where he had finally discovered an antitoxin to the once fatal poison of the Red Fang – the spider monsters of Thranduil's realm. Lindohtar of The Company had been the last to fall to its darkness, a death that had tipped Legolas' delicately balanced psyche and had forced him into the wilds, in search of healing.

He smiled sadly, as his eyes scanned them all once more; Balentar, Eruanna, Calanon, Thandion, Lindir, Amanthor, Mentathiel. His smiled turned lighter then, because all of them had stories to tell, all of them in some way related to Legolas himself. It would be a wonderful reunion of friends and lovers, and Erestor, Chief Councilor of Imladris, felt his heart lifted to the heavens and his smile widen – how much longer until they arrived, he wondered, not for the first time since yesterday.

…..

Aerion smiled as his horse ambled along with the rest of his travelling companions. They had been on the road for two weeks now – it was a tedious ride from Mithlond to Lothlorien, yet the simple promise of being close to Him once more, was enough to make it bearable – nay enjoyable. He would be witness to a great, historical event, one which most of his party looked forward to with an almost naïve sense of optimism and enthusiasm – yet there was one who felt no such joy at the crowning of a high king – Cirdan, his Lord.

After the Spring Festival, Aerion had given a most detailed chronicle to Cirdan, and had spoken most highly of the Forest Lord. Yet another had not – one of his Lord's spies had accompanied their group. It was not that the elf had lied, he had simply seen things from his own, twisted perspective, for he was bitter and biased; an unfortunate victim of the Last Alliance who had turned cold in the wake of too much loss and heartbreak. It had galled Aerion that his lord had given more credit to a spy than to his own chief councilor, yet Cirdan had been adamant – not in his refusal of the high king, but in his almost embarrassing indifference to the event of an age.

The reason was beyond him – political? Nay, for there was nothing to gain by opposing a high king that most accepted, nothing to gain by becoming the minority. There was something else, some aspect of his Lord's willingness to see only the negative that led Aerion to what was, to his own mind, the most plausible explanation – it was something personal, yet as far as Aerion was aware, Cirdan and Legolas had never met.

Their party numbered fifty elves, fifty who had set out with somber faces and a heavy step, and yet now, two weeks later, they smiled and chatted, bounced upon their heels as if they danced a summer jig. The truth was, that the further away from the Grey Havens they travelled, the merrier they became. The thought of a high king was no longer a grim political debate but a reason to rejoice, to enjoy the long trip for there was the promise of the greatest celebration that Elvendom had ever seen. It was a historical moment, and they seemed to have decided that nothing was going to sour it for them, not even their own lord.

And thus, Aerion's bitter thoughts of spies and word-weary lords flew from his mind as he opened himself to the contagious good humour that grew with every league that took them closer to their destiny, closer to Legolas and Gildor.

…

With one last, longing look behind him, he turned his somber face to the rolling green fields before him, his extraordinary honey-coloured eyes swimming in moisture desperately held back, the furrow of his brow refusing to smooth out. The air was clean and fresh here, the earth moist and wholesome, fertile - alive. Yet far from lifting his spirits, his heart thumped heavily, for it only served to highlight what now lay behind him – the slowly decaying, rotting forests of putrid detritus that lay close to the Dark Tower, the suffering spirits of animals and the few pilgrims that remained under its toxic shadow. When would it end? Even should the unholy beast that inhabited it leave, would the forest ever be the way it once was? For it seemed to him that the sheer scale of damage could not be repaired and, again, his vision swam and his stomach twisted. He was bound to this land, this forest which he had nurtured, which he spoke to, understood as only one other could. He knew in his heart that he would continue to nurture it until he himself was touched by the shadow, taken even – for the fate of the trees was his own fate, of that he had no doubt, it was inevitable.

He wrapped his ragged brown cloak tighter around his wiry frame for it was cold on this sunny yet cloudless day. His travelling companion seemed to agree with him, as it poked its wet snout into the brilliant sunshine, wiggling it around as it sniffed the air. Deciding there was neither danger nor anything interesting to eat, it turned back into the frayed collar, in search of heat, but not before brushing its shiny nose over the wrinkled cheek of Aiwendil, or as some would have it, Radagast, Radagast the Brown.

…

Ecthelion felt – excited - for the first time in the years since he had taken over part of his father's diplomatic duties. He was on the road once more, travelling to the Elven realm of Lothlorien; what he would find there, remained a complete mystery to them all.

They had been completely and utterly shocked when a carrier bird had delivered the missive, signed by one Llyniel Aradaniel, Chief Advisor to one Legolas Thranduilion, he who would soon be crowned as king of elves. They had sat in stunned silence for a while, until the natural tendencies of each member of the ruling council began to shine through their reactions.

The Lords Aranal and Baranor had been the most tempered of them all, and had immediately adhered to Turgon's reasoning. This was, he deemed, a golden opportunity to ally Gondor with those that might take a stance against Sauron, for they were no stranger to him. He had also postulated that they may be able to convince the Wizard Lord of Isengard to help Gondor in its defense, for so far, all their diplomatic efforts had come to nothing. Saruman claimed that he could do nothing, for he had no armies to command, was no warrior. Yet when Turgon had offered him a hundred warriors to fortify Isengard, the wizard would have none of it.

The majority of Turgon's ruling council had vehemently expressed their opposition, however; it _was_ a trap, for the elves were allied with Sauron, they said, and this was but a brash attempt to lure Gondor's protector away from his stronghold and those loyal to him, so that they could overrun the lands of men.

It had been a long and arduous debate. Many centuries of isolation had led to the most scandalous rumours and half truths which had only served to fuel their fear and distrust. Indeed this was the crux of the question. They did not trust the elves to hold to their promises of union and trade. Too much time had passed, too much had been forgotten, too few books read and transmitted to their young ones …

Distrust and skepticism towards the elves, and a staunch loyalty to Steward Turgon had finally led them to consensus; they would proceed with utter caution, send Turgon's heir, Ecthelion

together with a full contingent of Gondorian warriors and a selected few advisors. It had been made clear that the heir would not be at liberty to take decisions, merely to listen and document their proposals and bring them back to Minas Tirith, where they would be debated by the entire ruling council.

Ecthelion had grudgingly accepted, and had promptly turned his attention to his scholars, for he was almost completely ignorant of elven and dwarven politics, and had but snippits of information, mostly from visiting politicians and warriors. And yet the White City was renowned for its extensive and well-appointed library, which sat within the bowls of Minas Tirith. It was a place of learning that was ever full of scholars and apprentices, healers and historians. It was much to Ecthelion's chagrin that he had not ventured into those hallowed halls of learning since he was a boy, obliged as he had been by his father.

Nimruzir had proven most diligent in his education of the Heir, so much so that Ecthelion had offered him the opportunity to travel with him, as his official chronicler. That way, if things went well, he could count on an official chronicle of his journey that would later be relayed to his people – help, perhaps, to make the right decisions, and, of course defend himself from the inevitable accusations of bias and infatuation.

Baranor and Araval would also join Ecthelion as advisors, for contrary to most of their colleagues, they held hope in their hearts for the outcome of this most extraordinary of events.

There was one, however, whom neither Turgon nor Ecthelion had invited – Damrod. He had been appointed by the council as an 'objective' observer. The Steward had had no other choice but to accept the naming, however much he knew Damrod would be a thorn in his son's side. He just hoped he did not overstep the boundaries of courtesy and breech the rules of elven, or dwarven protocol.

And so they had set out, three of the four politicians with hope and optimism, one with distrust and intolerance, and their fifty warriors? They had been warned in no uncertain terms by their captain Findegil, for elves were renowned warriors, cunning and immortal, and that there was only one way to kill them, however incredible it may seem.

…..

Much the same had happened with Dain and his party. Indeed they had been stunned that the missive had found them at all, for they were exiles with no home to speak of - overrun as it was by orcs and other foul beasts that the ousted king would not name. True they inhabited the lands where Belegost had once stood, far to the East of the Grey Havens, yet even so, the feat had been remarkable, and just a little unnerving that the elves would be privy to such intelligence.

Elves … Thranduil. He had refused to help when the Lonely Mountain was taken. The dwarven emissaries had reported that although they had been admitted into the Forest Realm and received with urgency by its king – there would be no help forthcoming. Thranduil had claimed that his folk had suffered great loss not so long ago – many families losing all of their male members to the battlefield. He would not send his people to death once more – not unless their own home was threatened.

Indeed that, he claimed, is what he did; send his warriors into the South.

Many had snorted in disdain at this lame justification. Dagorlad had been many centuries before – surely they had recovered since then? Nay, they had not believed the king, nor had they felt any empathy for his people. They had thus decided that Thranduil would never be an ally of the dwarves, too concerned as he was with his own realm to see the larger picture.

Yet Dain was wise, and had silently berated his kinsmen, for was this not what they all did? Look out for themselves and let the rest of Middle-earth seek its own security, its own happiness? Who were they to judge? Who was anybody to judge before the facts could be known? And yet he knew his kinsmen well. They would not simply listen and ponder, they would need to see, first hand, what these elves were about; it was the only way they would have but the shadow of a possibility of alliance.

Dain glanced to his right at Floi, who strode a little behind him, his hand ever upon his mighty battle axe, his eyes alert and searching. He was a good warrior – nay, excellent. Floi, together with Nar, had been two of the less vocal members of his court. Not that they were open minded about elves and men and the merits of this journey, but at least they had not cursed and sworn death to the ignoble, fickle souls of elves, or the brutal, backward human landlords.

It was enough, he supposed. The dwarves had no home, no allies – they were scattered and vulnerable, and however unlikely that true alliance could ever exist between the three races, he could not let this opportunity pass without at least his best effort, for there was no home to lose, no families to mourn, what did it matter if they failed?

It would not be long now before their rag-tag party arrived. Dain, together with Floi and Nar were the highest ranking representatives of their race, and together with their seventeen guards, they would attend, listen, learn as much as they could. True it had pleased him and his people that the elves would wish their future king's crown to be wrought by dwarven hands – it had been a rare show of deference, and Dain knew, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that they would be surprised at the results.

Now, as to the claims that this Legolas had a crown and sword wrought by Lord Aulë himself – bah! This was Arda, and the mighty Lord lived in the West – frivolous myth that good dwarven craftsmen would put an end to, and show them what true metal craft was about.

….

Legolas sat in the ornate gardens close to his talan. They were private, property of the Lords of Caras Galadhon and their guests. Had he a mind, he would have sought solitude in the outer reaches of the surrounding forests, for they beckoned playfully to him. Yet he would meet too many people along the way – too many greetings, too many smiles, too much… effort. He wished simply to think and be left to his privacy.

He had settled under a willow, whose supple branches brushed the surface of the slowly running stream like wistful fingers. He liked it here, for the willow seemed to envelope him, wrap him in a warm embrace, shield him from those that would encroach upon his thoughts.

He suddenly felt so very young – needing the shelter of a willow, sorrowful because he felt deprived of what he craved most. But then he was young – surely he could allow himself this small, insignificant moment of self-pity?

Self pity… or was it something else? Something he did not want to recognize – yes – if he was honest with himself, he knew it to be the truth. He was, quite simply, scared. Not of the battles to be had, of the darkness he would confront, but of failure.

His face turned down and he grimaced at his weakness. Weak, and young – unable to assimilate his duty, what he had been called to do – coward.

He felt like weeping, for this was not what his father had taught him – what his mother had taught him, albeit in her case, it had been but for a brief moment in his almost forgotten childhood.

She had been a warm body with chestnut hair – he could remember no more, except her smell – yes, she smelled of honeysuckle – sweet and fragrant so that he wanted to squeeze her, snuggle into the depths of her large, protective body. His father had smelt of honeysuckle too for a while, and then for some reason he could not fathom, the smell had gone, exiled to the corners of his distant memories. He could remember no more, except for how much he missed that warmth, that smell, that protective body that would shield him – just as the willow did for him now. A wave of pity slammed into him – not for his mother but for himself.

He felt nature's heartbeat, ever latent in his mind, as it surged momentarily, in time with his own he knew.

He saw her face every day, for the fortress contained many renderings of the fallen queen of the Greenwood. She was beautiful, yet when he gazed upon her image, he simply – could not remember; he would stand before her as one perplexed, his head cocked subtly to one side as if trying and failing to understand – she was a stranger to him, all except her warmth and her smell, so comforting.

His thoughts moved on to his father. He imagined him sitting in his study, or pacing, like a caged animal, for his father had sacrificed much to become king. He was a most able warrior, an active elf that had helped defend his father's kingdom for many centuries. That was until Oropher was slain at Dagorlad and Thranduil had been enslaved, enslaved to the people of the Greenwood.

He sighed, but the heaviness upon his chest would not leave him. Could he really do this? He was a warrior, Hwindohtar of The Company; he belonged in the forests, defending their homes – it is what he excelled in. Could he truly leave his calling, and become high king on Arda, as the Valar had ruled?

He realized for the first time with bitterness, that he had no choice in the matter. He could hardly defy the powers – nay, he would not, yet what they asked of him would bring unhappiness and self-doubt.

But then, he mused, who was to say that he should be cooped up in some army barracks, planning and strategizing, issuing orders and growing weak, slowly but surely losing his skills with blade and bow, at the expense of others who would inform him, execute his orders. It worked for his father, for Elrond and the Lords of Lothlorien – was necessary even.

And then he realized that it could never be the same for him. He was not king of one realm but all of them. Surely he was not meant to stay in one place, behind the lines. Had Lord Aulë not made him a mighty sword? Yaavan was not meant as an ornamental piece; that much was evident. The heaviness began to stir and he adjusted his seat under the willow, before resuming his thoughts.

They had chosen him, had they not? And why, if not for his skill in battle? There would be other reasons for sure, but they had chosen a warrior – nay, he was sure of it now, he was meant to fight, be with his army, not behind it!

The weight began to lift as his mind whirled at this, new perspective. The image of himself, pacing and fretting in a campaign office, shimmered and disappeared, and then he reappeared, dressed for war with Glorfindel and Elladan at either shoulder. Yes – that is what he wanted. There had never been any doubt that he would obey the Valar, but he had formed preconceived ideas of his duty that were simply unnecessary. He was a warrior and he would fight, and should he fall, Glorfindel would see the job done.

Laying back against the silvery trunk, he closed his eyes, feeling almost light-headed. His mind was clear – for the first time in long months – for now he knew not only what he must do, but how he must achieve it. His coronation no longer seemed like a pompous act of senseless indulgence – it was a necessary and conscious act of union – a statement of leadership that could well tip the balance of fortune in the near future.

Branches shifted almost imperceptively, their leafy fingers shaking as they communicated with their Lord; a friend was approaching.

Sure enough, no sooner had Legolas turned his face a little to the side, and the ragged grey robes of Mithrandir filled his vision, sinking to the forest floor beside him, his face serious and discerning as he settled himself and leant his staff against the accommodating willow.

They sat in silence for some minutes, before Legolas turned to the wizard, a signal that he was ready to speak, ready for the wizard's company. Yet he found him smiling off into the distance, some unspoken pleasure playing through his mind, no doubt. It was contagious, and Legolas' own lips spread into a tentative smile.

"Whatever you have been doing these past hours, my Lord, has been well worth the effort," said Mithrandir, before adding, "hasn't it?" turning his head to meet the Forest Lord's gaze head on.

Legolas' smile widened before he answered. "Yes, unexpectedly, but yes – I am ready, Mithrandir – ready for this thing I must do."

Mithrandir held his gaze, taking his own time to answer, for when he did, his words were full of the surety he felt in his heart.

"I know, Legolas, I do know."


	12. Splendour and Magnificence

Chapter 11: Splendour and Magnificence

In the days that followed Legolas' understanding and acceptance of his future role, the men of Gondor and the exiled Dwarves had finally arrived. Both parties had been escorted by Haldir and his warriors into Caras Galadhon and ultimately, before its lords. The meetings had been apparently cordial, yet when they had later spoken of it with Elrond, Glorfindel and Legolas, they had told of the strong undercurrents of mistrust they had felt.

It was logical, they said. Nobody had thought for one minute that the process of alliance would be easy. On the contrary, they were aware of years of diplomacy on the horizon, and thus they had tucked the information neatly away. They would bide their time and observe their progress…

However, they concurred that it had been the Humans, surprisingly, that had shown their thoughts most clearly. Young Ecthelion had been nothing but correct, had followed protocol and seemed at least willing to participate, and his advisors Aranal and Baranor had been – _quiet_. Yet it had been Damrod whose face had expressed so much more than their curious chronicler, Nimruzir. He seethed and broiled and held himself in check only just it seemed. He was dangerous, they realized – quite literally, and thus Haldir had been alerted, and a silent sentinel set upon him, should he cause strife.

As for the dwarves, Dain was a commanding soul – somewhat gruff as all dwarves seemed to the elves, at least. Yet his innate nobility had struck them all. His companions Nar and Flori showed nothing but the mask of a warrior, except for when their commission had been set at the feet of their hosts – then, they had straightened and lifted their chins impossibly high, deep dark eyes twinkling with the light of a thousand gems. Such pride, even exiled and dispossessed as they were.

The commission, however, had not been opened immediately, and Galadriel had invited the three dwarven lords to a private meeting after dinner, so that those who would have a hand at the crowning, could see for themselves what it was that they would place upon the king's golden head. They had readily accepted, of course, and the following day, no amount of coaxing could wrench a word from those that had seen it, and their only source of information had been the dwarves themselves, for their eyes twinkled and sparkled merrily and their stance was proud.

...

Ecthelion sat with his compatriots Aranal, Baranor and Damrod. Nimruzir the chronicler, was perched a way behind the lords, scribbling furiously on a sheet of parchment that lay over a wooden surface set over his knees.

They had arrived the day before, tired and overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and sensations they had experienced. Even so, they had retired as soon as they were able, lest they make babbling fools of themselves. It would not do to show weakness, for first impressions were paramount, and one look at Damrod's sour face had told Ecthelion that his decision had been wise.

They had been perplexed at the welcome they had received. Paradoxically, however, it did nothing to convince him of the elves' good will though, for it was surely excessive, as if they were heroes returning in victory from some great battle. It baffled him and raised his guard even more than it already had been.

Baranor's thoughts wandered the same paths, it seemed, as he broke the contemplative silence with questions which, unbeknownst to him, reflected those of his young lord.

"Will you give me your thoughts, my Lord?" he asked tentatively.

Ecthelion startled somewhat, before turning to face the councilor. A deep breath and a healthy pause preceded his carefully filtered words. "I am unsure, Lord Baranor, I confess. Or mayhap it is too early to say. I am struck by our welcome, for they seem most keen to impress and it spikes my suspicions."

A snort from Damrod was ignored as Baranor held Ecthelion's gaze for a few moments longer than was strictly necessary. It seemed that his answer had been insufficient, too undefined – or, perhaps he simply did not agree. Indeed he held his silence and was duly rewarded for his patience.

"They dressed in their finest to greet us, smiled their most graceful smiles, showered us with flowers and petals of sweet honeysuckle and jasmine – _why_?" he threw back at Baranor, thinking that this time, he had rather expressed himself in no uncertain terms.

Aranal shifted uncomfortable beside them, listening attentively, it seemed, albeit he held his silence as he listened to their reasoning.

"May I speak plainly, my Lord?" asked Baranor, a searching look on his otherwise stern face.

"Of course, speak your mind, Baranor, for is this not why you have come?" The Steward's son immediately regretted his harsh tone, for Baranor was nothing if not intuitive – and loyal. He had not deserved it, and yet Ecthelion strove to understand, and the fact that he did not, was frustrating him.

"Ecthelion," began the advisor, "I believe you are wrong, for I did not see it like that at all. True they are beautiful upon the eye, graceful and opulent – indeed they gave a most notorious welcome I am sure Nimruzir has captured upon his parchments with skill, but these things tell me a different story. They speak to me of pride and goodness. This is a coronation, a monumental event. I say the welcome is proportional to the importance of it – they are not evil, not allied with Sauron – this much I will swear to."

"You believe beauty to be incompatible with evil? With darkness? Remember the tales of Mairon – beauty to behold, yet the soul was darker than the deepest bowls of Khazad Dum, still is..." said Ecthelion, his expression turning sour as his stomach turned a little at the thought of the one who threatened Gondor and everything he held dear.

"Aye, and nay, I do not say 'tis only their physical beauty that predisposes me positively – I say I believe their souls to be good, or at the very least, I believe there is nothing we have seen that should turn our thoughts dark, save our own, unfounded mistrust, for you have been quick to find a negative reason for their welcome…" he trailed off, holding Ecthelion's eyes meaningfully, before they drifted almost unconsciously towards Damrod.

"And he does well to suspect, Baranor, for you are gullible to the point of danger – as a councilor that is a questionable trait…" drawled Damrod.

"Stay your slights, councilor and say what you must," said Baranor through a tightly clenched, pulsating jaw. Baranor may be a moderate on the steward's council, but that did not mean he was meak.

"I say, my lord Ecthelion, that they are like snakes that slither here and there, trick the eye and lure the soul until you are vulnerable – who is to say this is not the case? We have been here but a day and already I see some of our men – our _warriors_ - smiling and giggling and fawning like virginal maidens, even with the males! Since when have we seen men of Gondor flirting with those of their same sex! 'Tis abhorrent I tell you. And now, I am told that this future king is to bind to a male. It makes me _sick_, my Lord – do you not see the debauchery, the deception?"

"I do not, Damrod," replied Ecthelion evenly. "I will admit that two males together is a concept that is not easy for me to accept, yet it is not unheard of in our own lands – this you know. However, I will heed your council and stay my judgment until we have had further interaction with them. Yet, I too, will council you, my lord. Stay your own judgment, open your eyes and your heart to the facts, not to your preconceived ideas."

The comment, predictably, sat ill with the now simmering councilor, yet he held his tongue and answered with a stilted nod. Baranor, however, stared long at the councilor who met it defiantly. They were two opposites, representing the same nation with the same objectives, and yet how differently they saw things. Ecthelion closed his eyes for a moment to steady his own temper, before turning his head to Aranal in silent question. The advisor simply smiled subtly, hunching his shoulders for a brief moment. There would be nothing forthcoming here and so his head swiveled backwards and to Nimruzir, who glanced up momentarily from his writing, the furious scratching of his quill stilling for a moment. The scribe smiled – wide and confident, a new gleam in his wise grey eyes that Ecthelion knew had not been there the day before.

…..

Elrond stood upon the platform that the Galadhrim used as a council chamber. It was early afternoon, yet the day was strangely dull and overcast, as if dusk were but a few minutes away. There was humidity in the air that fell around him heavily, weighing down his thick velvet robes of burgundy and brown, as if a great storm were about to break around him and nature itself, held its breath in anticipation of its wrath.

His own mood he knew to be molding itself to it, and his characteristic frown was back; the downward slant of his eyes and the slightly absent look upon his noble Noldorin features, telling a story of responsibility and loss.

There was much to think of, to analyze and so he permitted himself the luxury of detaching himself from the frivolous turn of conversation that had struck up amongst the Lorien councilors, turning his thoughts inwards and to the events of the previous day.

His own people had arrived from Imladris, with Erestor at the fore. How beautiful he had looked, sitting proud atop his blue-black stallion, his expression open and joyous, yet wise and measured. They had been welcomed by Galadriel and Celeborn, and then Elrond had had his own joyful reunion with his lover, not that he …

"My Lady, my Lords, the Greenwood is come."

Elrond's head snapped towards to the entrance, his long, silver-tipped braids banging almost painfully against the back of his head as his mind centred itself on the here and now once more.

His eyes drifted to Galadriel, wondering how it was she had not sensed it. Indeed she stood staring at the warrior in wide-eyed disbelief, anger almost, for this was nothing short of a public proclamation of failure. She twisted the fingers of one hand around her index finger, and Elrond subconsciously mirrored the anxious movement. A soft touch to the small of her back from Celeborn seemed to ground her once more.

"How so," she asked in her modulated, low-pitched voice that spoke of strength and authority, of otherworldliness and experience beyond the norm. Indeed Elrond was beginning to suspect that magic was at work.

"Marchwarden Haldir sent me forth to warn you, my Lady, for he received no instructions or forewarning. He thought that perhaps my Lady would need time to prepare."

"_Prepare_?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. Elrond understood her completely. It was true there were many to accommodate by all accounts, for the Greenwood diplomats had written of the numbers that planned to travel. As such, an entire glade had been allotted to them so that they may pitch their tents for the duration of their stay – but why would the Marchwarden believe Galadriel should be warned?

The warrior inhaled deeply, visibly steadying his stance before answering; he was nervous and anxious, and Elrond knew then, knew that something extraordinary had happened. His own heart accelerated and his blood thumped in his ears as he too fixed his piercing grey gaze upon the unfortunate warrior.

"My Lady…" he said, tentatively now, his voice wavering slightly.

"The Greenwood…" he began, stopping to collect himself before trying once more.

"They come in… _splendor and magnificence_…" he whispered, and yet it had seemed so loud to Elrond as it reverberated in his ears, around the council chamber, muting any other sound that would dare to encroach upon this strange moment.

"What…" began Celeborn, but stopped when Mithrandir stood and approached the warrior.

"Calm yourself, warrior, and answer me now," he said slowly, as if casting a spell, indeed the young lieutenant felt his heartbeat slow and his breathing deepen as his eyesight sharpened and the council chamber came back into focus.

"Tell me, what it is that has impressed you so, my friend," invited the wizard.

"They …" he tried once more, but he was truly tongue tied and the two words he had spoken before popped back into his paralyzed mind.

"They come in splendor and magnificence…" he whispered once more, his head cocking to the side. This time, however, a subtle smile escaped him, rueful almost, and Mithrandir mirrored it, holding the warrior's gaze, searching the dancing eyes and Elrond wondered – he wondered what Thranduil had devised, what the Greenwood had done to impress a Lorien warrior so that he could not think, could not give voice to his thoughts, even to Mithrandir. And then his own eyes widened for just a moment as a spark of suspicion struck him, yet he said nothing, for if Haldir had not disclosed the information, there was surely a reason for it – and yet the very notion seemed – _absurd._

Mithrandir's head turned slowly until his eyes settled upon those of a somewhat startled Elrond, who met and searched them. He watched as the wizard's weathered face smoothed out somewhat, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards only slightly, his deep blue eyes sparkling with the depth of nascent understanding ...

…

Legolas stood before the full-length mirror, a splendorous Glorfindel behind him, dressed as was fitting a Warrior Lord of Gondolin; and then, the leafy background reminded him that he was also Lord of the Greenwood and soon to be Prince and he smiled at the thought of it.

Today, Legolas would present himself as Crown Prince of his people, albeit he had favoured his military rather than civilian robes of office. This, of course, was no whim, for he wished to state his case; he chose the life of a warrior king.

Half his powerful chest and one arm shone in all its muscled glory – naked save for the scars, and gold and mithril that adorned it in the form of bands and bracelets. The other half of his torso was clad in luscious moss green velvet. The material disappeared under a sash of pale blue that wrapped his trim waist, from which a long skirt hung down to his calves.

His carefully braided and decorated hair hanging down past his buttocks at the back, twisted and tucked into the sides of the swirling twisted roots of his woodland crown, and his ornamental daggar peaked dangerously from the sash at his waist – a reminder of the Gondolin part of him, his great, great grandfather, Legaelair.

"You are magnificent, Legolas," whispered Glorfindel, for they were not alone upon the platform.

Smiling, Legolas turned to face him, capturing the shining blue irises with his own of forest green, a light smile gracing his sinful lips. "You deserve no less, I will give you no less…"

"Ai, but you will have us all mewling and spewing words of poesy as we wring our hands and wail in despair…!" exclaimed Gildor as he waved his hands theatrically in the air, reminding Glorfindel of Erestor for a moment.

"Gildor, the day a word of poesy leaves your lips, will be the day Elladan Elrondion kisses an uruk's backside!" smirked Elladan, casting a mischievous grin at Galadriel's new-found brother, who scowled furiously at the suggestion that he was not of the romantic cut.

A loud snort was the only contribution Galdithion was able to make as he watched Gildor's thunderous glare turn on him briefly, before swiveling in Elladan's direction.

"Watch your language, Herald, there is a lady present," he intoned in a most lordly manner, at which said lady snorted even louder than Galdithion had.

"I, am of the Greenwood, Gildor, warrior society as you have never known – I am not distressed with the imagery of an elf kissing an uruk's backside – I have heard much worse…" she said matter of factly, as she reached out to smooth a strand of errant hair from Legolas' merry face.

"Come, my lady, lords and generals. Drink with me now ere we meet the people of the Greenwood, for I would do so together with you, my most trusted of companions," he said joyously, himself pouring the rich red liquid and handing them all a glass.

"To my High Constable, my Chief Advisor, my Herald, and my Greenwood and Lorien Constables. Everything begins today. Our service to Elvendom is dawning – this is our calling, our duty, and those outside these doors, are our people, those we will soon swear to protect – will you stand by me this day?"

"Aye!" they thundered as they smiled and their eyes glittered and their hearts swelled with pride and purpose.

"Come, let us welcome my people, _our_ people, for they have travelled long," he said softly, before feeling the hands of Gildor, Elladan and Galdithion upon him in silent support and collusion, and Glorfindel smiled. Because by all the Gods he had felt this before, this profound sense of future and purpose, belonging and righteousness – today, they had returned to the days of glory, a second dawn of Elvendom, not of the Noldor, but of _all_ elves upon Arda.

…

Splendour and magnificence indeed, thought Legolas, feeling the presence of Mithrandir at his side. His cabinet was complete, he realized, save for those he would have join him in representation of humans, and dwarves … all in good time, he murmured to himself as he cast his eyes over them once more, his heart swelling in such pride and love he felt drunk, dizzy, filled to the brim with the joy of life. The face of Idhrenohtar of The Company appeared before his mind's eye then, just briefly, enough to make his smile a little wider.

They stood waiting in silence, staring out across the glade to the tree line beyond. The sentinels were returning, walking through the trees to the sides, bows held loosely at their sides, heads turning constantly backwards. The weather was strangely humid and close. It should not have been so and it suddenly felt – _wrong_.

Searching for answers, his eyes landed upon Galadriel, who turned and met them head on. Yet they revealed nothing to him, and so his gaze wandered off to her left, where Arwen stood in her finery. Surprisingly, she was just as closed as her grandmother. What he had expected to learn he knew not, yet the air was charged with expectation beyond what he would have guessed – as if something strange were afoot. The silence was absolute, not even the trees whispered to him.

Still searching for answers, his eyes glanced over the Gondorian and dwarven representatives before finally falling upon a resplendent Erestor…

Expectation washed through Erestor, over him, for he had the sensation of standing upon the precipice of life, looking down over the long history of his own, fraught as it was by both pain and love, long-lived here and there, acquiring knowledge or ridding himself of myth and untruth.

Today, what was it about today? For it had grabbed him by the scruff and shaken him, as if waking him from a dream – prizing his eyes open, wide so that he could see … and he _did_. A wave of energy pulsed through him and then again as his nostrils flared to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen in his lungs – this was a moment of importance, he could _feel_ it, yet what shape and form it would take, he knew not.

He felt the heaviness of eyes upon him, and his peripheral vision told him that Legolas gazed upon him. Intrigued, he turned his head only slightly, sending his lover an indulgent smile, yet there was a question in his eyes, one Erestor could not answer, for he too, was perplexed.

The blast of elven horns in three octaves turned his eyes to the fore once more, startled somewhat at the suddenness of it, and successfully hiding it, thanks to his long years as Chief Councilor to Elrond.

From between the trees, figures began to emerge. They were too far away to make out, but their clothes were bright and colourful, and the metal of their armour and jewels glinted under the now emerging sun.

As he watched, it seemed to Erestor that they had simply appeared, as if the forest had shielded them from sight until that moment the sun had pushed through the cloak of obscurity, materializing them and then shining down upon them, as if to boast their beauty. They began a forward march as the humidity began to dissipate, bringing the figures slowly into focus. This was woodland magic, but whoever was wielding it, it was not Legolas, for his eyes remained bright and clear.

A mounted figure was beginning to materialize at the fore – Aradan no doubt, indeed a quick glance at Llyniel seemed to confirm that, for she stood tense, her eyes straining into the distance. And yet she did not seem to recognize her father, for her face told Erestor she was unsure of the identity of he who was, undoubtedly, their leader.

Erestor's eyes worked to their considerable limit, riveted as they were on the white horse and its rider. Bright blonde hair peaked out from around a broad back, yet he could not yet work out the details. He sat tall and proud as the woodelves of the Greenwood walked at his side, behind him. Only seconds later, and Erestor's skin prickled painfully as the roots of his long hair tingled. Drawing in a long generous lungful of air, he turned now to Legolas and found the confirmation he sought. His lover stood rooted to the spot, yet his body seemed set to move of its own accord. It was true, then…. Thranduil king had left his woodland realm for the first time in two thousand five hundred years – and by the Valar what a sight, what a feast of exotic strangeness and mysterious beauty – Glorfindel had once called it Arcane Land, and indeed Erestor understood only now, what he had meant by that.

They moved ever closer to the silent lords and ladies that awaited them on the other side of the glade as the mist swirled around their boots and the hems of their robes, playfully, mischievously. Details became clearer and the face of Thranduil defined itself at last. Erestor would have liked to turn to the Lady and Celeborn, but he could not tear his eyes away from the vision before him. Here was a king if ever he had seen one, and he had, more than once.

His stance, however cloaked, was imposing and arrogant, serene and commanding, sleek yet powerful – deadly, and so very beautiful. Had Erestor not met Legolas, he would have proclaimed him the most beautiful of elven males – but this one's son was in a category all his own - there was no competing with the Forest Lord.

Much closer now, Erestor watched him dismount in one smooth, practiced move, piercing blue eyes riveted upon his son, a face that told of pride unmatched, for this king was blessed, and by the Valar he knew it.

Smiling now, Erestor watched as father and son came together slowly, Legolas unable to gather himself from this utter shock, Thranduil smirking at his feat. It was then, that Erestor caught sight of Aiwendil, who smiled boyishly at him, and only then, did the Noldorin advisor realize just how it had been done. Indeed Aiwendil had been Legolas' master during his instruction deep in the woods of the Greenwood. His power was great, he would have requested their help and been granted, for Legolas was their Lord.

Finally halting his steps but an arm's width away from the future king of Elvendom, jeweled hands reached up to push back the hood of his cloak, the shock of golden hair glinting in the early afternoon sun, illuminating a face that elicited a thousand gasps of wondrous awe as the light now caught on his crown of gold and gems, of roots and flowers.

The stunned stillness finally broke as Legolas stepped forward and flung his strong arms around his father, who in turn clasped his son to his own body fiercely, his face now hidden from Erestor's admiring gaze.

He smiled, for this was a side to Legolas that Erestor had never seen – Ever strong, controlled, rational and passionate, but this – this love for his father, this vulnerability. He was suddenly endeared even more to him, for he seemed unashamed at this public show of affection, unconcerned that it may dwindle his authority, or the respect that others held for their future king. Nothing else had mattered in that moment, and Erestor's eyes filled with tears for the surge of memories long past.

The moment passed, however, and Thranduil now stood before his hosts, Galadriel and Celeborn. It struck Erestor that Thranduil and Celeborn would know each other, for both had lived in Doriath, may years ago. Yet he was sure they had not met in perhaps three thousand years, except that look, that intensity in the Lord of Lorien's eyes made Erestor think twice. A glance at the lady Galadriel at Celeborn's side raised the Councilor's eyebrow, however, for he was an expert in semiotics – he knew what he saw there in her diamond studded eyes of brilliant blue; betrayal, and … desire.

…..

Elrond, Glorfindel and Llyniel stood before the quarters that had been assigned to Legolas, high up in the Mellryn, as was fitting his station. The screen was pushed aside by a rather forboding Avari – the king's guard, thought Elrond as he tried not to stare at the strangeness of him. The only armour he wore was of leather, and the only items that shone or glinted, where his two long blades. He was, however, highly decorated, yet the materials were not from the Furnace but of the forest – leather, ivory, feather and other fauna Elrond could not quite place – so utterly different to the one he guarded, he mused.

Nodding his thanks he stepped inside. The light was warm and the sweet smell of burning resins both surprised and delighted him. Off to one side, a luxurious carpet was spread, and upon it, two sinfully erotic elves lay amid cushions of warm, earthy colours, sipping wine and sharing news.

Elrond held back as Glorfindel and Llyniel advanced, both bowing formally to Thranduil, who rose fluidly to his feet, returning their respect with a nod and a subtle smile.

However, his smile faded as he walked towards the exit and past Elrond, who he had not seen in over two-thousand years. Steely blue met frosty grey, locked in mutual curiosity and pride – pride that prevented either from making a formal greeting. Past issues were, paradoxically, too near, and so they simply nodded their greeting the one to the other, before Thranduil floated from the room in an elegant stream of velvet, silk and exquisite fragrances.

Turning his eyes back to the fore, he realized that the brief yet intense moment of reunion had been closely scrutinized by all, and he smiled ruefully as he approached them, yet he did not sit, as the others had.

Looking down upon them, a surge of love swept over him. Legolas, beauty beyond belief, Glorfindel, valor untold, Llyniel – wise councilor, tragic maiden. Perhaps it would work, he mused … He decided then, that it was not his place to stay – for Llyniel needed the comfort only her future mates could provide – or rather should. Her father had not come, for Thranduil had; he would be ruling in the king's stead, and Llyniel's hopes of seeking her father's council and consent, had been summarily dashed.

He knelt before Legolas, bending forward and then placing an almost fatherly kiss upon his forehead.

"I am glad for you, Legolas," and as the forest lord smiled radiantly, Llyniel's head hung as she struggled with her own feelings. Elrond's eyes flickered to her briefly, before returning to Legolas. He saw understanding, and intention, and Elrond nodded.

Moments later, and Elrond had left, bound for his quarters and an expectant Erestor, leaving the three lovers sat upon the impressive Sindarin carpet that the Greenwood had brought especially for their prince to lounge upon.

Legolas lifted his leg a little higher, the silken cloth of his skirts sliding down and to the sides, revealing the pale flesh of a muscled thigh. Two sets of eyes fixed on the spectacle of their own accord, as Glorfindel took an generous gulp from his goblet, the liquid staining his lips.

Legolas turned to Llyniel then, who stared once more at the delicate weave of the rug beneath her.

Legolas reached out towards his future mate, gently lifting her chin with his fingers as he peered into her dull eyes.

Glorfindel joined them, smoothing the backs of his fingers down her soft cheek as Legolas soothed her with his soft words.

"When the ceremony is done, we shall travel to the Greenwood, see your family and my own. You could stay there while Glorfindel and I sort out our headquarters, take council with your father and mine, learn what you may of the task before us, of Gondor, Erebor and Moria. I will need you versed on their history, politics and culture. We are to bind in a year's time – we would meet again then. What say you?"

Llyn was no warrior and the search for their homestead would be arduous. It was also true that the king's chief advisor had much research to do, for Llyn was well versed in elven politics, but of the workings of human and dwarven societies, she knew little.

She simply nodded her consent, a soft 'alright' her only words.

He spared a quick glance at Glorfindel, who now knelt behind her, caressing her shoulders, her arms.

She looked up then, and smiled timidly for the first time that morning. "Yes," she whispered, now convinced of the wisdom of it. Legolas' lips met hers then, in a kiss so sweet it brought tears to her eyes, and respite to her troubled mind. She missed her father, needed him now more than she ever had, yet Legolas' words rang true. She would see him crowned, travel back to the Greenwood and take advantage of every moment she was granted there – for she knew in her heart, that soon – soon she would be parted from them, and for who knew how long.

…..

Elrond wandered away from the royal talan with no set destiny in mind. He would take the rest of the day to contemplate recent events, and the now impending coronation of the new High King.

There was also the uncomfortable issue of Thranduil. There was much misunderstanding between them – it needed addressing if this was to work, and even if that were not the case, it was about Legolas' father, his lover's sire.

And then of course, there was the none too inconsequential issue of the Greenwood's huge military apparatus. They were needed and that was the truth – Elrond would strive to understand, and if he could not, then at least he would offer his acceptance.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way to a secluded corner, for the trickle of gently running water had drawn him there. He walked between the trees until he came across a stone bench and table, upon which sat a king, one ornate boot tucked beneath him as the other leg dangled over the side.

Elrond stopped abruptly in his tracks, for Thranduil had obviously thought himself alone, had clearly sought solitude. And yet he did not stand nor indeed move at all, he simply turned his face towards the newcomer, stony features set in a mask of indifference that had Elrond frankly impressed.

"I apologize for intruding, my Lord," said Elrond softly, bowing his head and turning to leave the king to his thoughts, yet surprisingly, he was stopped.

"Elrond, a moment, if you will."

Silence reigned for a moment, before Elrond turned to face the now standing king, his face no longer rigid but somewhat smoother.

"I have yet to thank you for part in Legolas' recuperation. It was selfless of you, in spite of our political estrangement. You have my eternal thanks," he finished, a subtle smile upon his lips as he bowed his head just slightly.

"It was my very great privilege, Thranduil. Legolas is – well-loved by all."

Thranduil's smile widened as he approached Elrond, stopping close enough to touch. "Well-loved indeed," he drawled as his head cocked to the side and his eyes searched those of the lord of Imladris.

"And by all accounts, you take your fill of him, do you not?"

Elrond's eyebrow rose at the king's words – direct indeed, yet what was his meaning?

"Indeed I do. Who would not? He gives of himself freely and I am incapable of refusing." Elrond too, could be direct.

Thranduil held the somewhat defensive gaze, before nodding and turning to sit, inviting Elrond to join him with his hand.

"I like your sincerity, Elrond, and your valour. Not many would have answered me thus."

"We are both leaders, Thranduil; well versed, long-lived, and intuitive. Your words were a test, one you feel I have passed, and for that I am glad."

Now it was Thranduil's dark golden brow that rose high upon his forehead.

"My son is incorrigible, he has more lovers than arrows in his quiver," he smirked, making himself comfortable upon the table once more.

Elrond smiled sincerely now as he sat upon the bench. "You can hardly blame them – he is stunning on the eye, Thranduil. And even were he not, I would love him still …. You have raised him well, in spite of adversity."

Thranduil turned his weighty gaze upon the Peredhel lord, searching the slate grey eyes once more before nodding slightly in thanks.

"Elrond – the tension between us must be cleared, for the king to be able to do what he must, you and I must be allies – this at least," said Thranduil, almost thoughtfully, as if he spoke to one who was not there.

There it was, mused Elrond, Thranduil himself had broached the subject, albeit thanks to the diligent groundwork he himself had done. He sat back and readied himself to listen, to really _listen_, and if he could – understand.

That ill-fated day when the Greenwood arrived on the Dagorlad, at the behest of a Noldorin king, nay," he hastened to add, standing now, "I do not mean that as it may sound to you – but remember this, Elrond; Gil-Galad was named King of the _Noldor_. What then of the Sylvan, Avari and Sindar of my realm? By his very name he was not our king, and yet he did wish to rule us. Would it have been so much to call himself High _Elven_ King? To include us in the balance, somehow?"

Elrond's heart slowed for a moment as understanding hit him. Thranduil was right, Gil-Galad never proclaimed himself High King of _all _elves, but of the Noldor only, and that was just what he was. Yet the Noldor seemed to proclaim their king as king of all elves, as if all others were secondary, unimportant. He was drawn from his musings as Thranduil began his speech once more.

"In spite of this, we answered his call, for how could we not? And yet it was also with the hope that we would, at last earn our place as equals. Even so, we were relegated to the lateral and rear flanks, our generals without command over their own troops…"

"The strategy had already been worked out, Thranduil, by the time your father arrived…."

"You did not _wait,_ and you did not count on our participation!" Your strategy was of Noldorin design, for the Noldorin – we were the pawns, the meat that mattered not, not to the orcs and not to Gil-Galad. Our entire army fighting at the flanks and rear was both madness and an _insult_ to our warrior-culture. Madness because we have the finest archers on Middle earth, and insult because you did not think us valorous enough, not brave enough to take the vanguard."

He paused then, perhaps to calm himself, yet what he had said so far had shocked Elrond to the core, for he had never understood Oropher's mad charge, indeed nobody had, putting it down to an unquenchable desire for prominence and renown, or simple Sindarin arrogance, for they had never been sympathetic to Gil-Galad's rule.

"I will admit" said Thranduil, softly now, "that from that moment, Oropher's passion and pride overruled his good sense – and the rest is history, is it not?" he asked gently, turning to face Elrond, whose own eyes were wide open, unable to hide his shocked understanding.

"Yes – history indeed, for in his haste, your sire took with him his entire army, and yet," said Elrond, rising slowly and walking slowly towards Thranduil, who watched him almost with baited breath. "And yet – the _real_ mistake, the origin of it all was in Gil-Galad, for his judgment of your people was clearly based on either ignorance, or arrogance. I believe," he said, as if working out the nuances even as he spoke, "that he simply did not attempt to understand – your culture, your society, how your people witnessed the events that led up to that battle of battles – yet could he have acted in any other way?" Asked Elrond sincerely then, "could he have known otherwise, Thranduil?"

The blond king held Elrond's meaningful gaze, his head tilting slightly to one side as he considered the lord's words.

"'Tis a circle it would seem," he said calmly. "My kin withdrew from Noldorin society for the treatment they received as second-rate citizens, mediocre warriors. I can see how your people's ignorance of our society would lead to intolerance, ridicule…"

"But Legolas has changed that, Thranduil. Since the Spring Festival, now two years past, the Greenwood is an unknown land of surprise and opportunity – pejorative comments and xenophobia is rarely encountered now…"

"Can we change what our forbearers could not achieve?" asked the king, nascent hope dawning on his strong, beautiful face. "Can you and I, Galadriel and Cirdan truly break down these barriers – work together as _equals_, Elrond? Can your Noldorin kin work with me, value our input – _listen_ to our council?"

Elrond's eyes glittered and then glinted, and his smile was feral as he stepped forward and whispered forcefully, "_yes_! By the Valar I will see it _done_!"

Thranduil raised his ring-clad hand and clapped Elrond hard upon the shoulder, yet he did not smile, noted Elrond. Glad but cautious then, he decided – and who could blame him? For did he himself not feel the same?

He smiled to himself as he wandered back to his talan and Erestor. Everything was disposed. It had all finally come together and Elvendom would have its warrior king. And yet the sheer magnitude of what would come next was nothing if not daunting. Elves of all races, men, dwarves…coming together as one against _him_… could it truly be done? And if it could, would this be the end of the elves' time upon Arda? Or would it mark a new age in which no one's time would be over, an age of conquest and discovery which no one would want to miss?

…..

Dain leant against a sturdy rock, with Flor and Nar sitting close by. His noble head was tilted upwards and a new gleam was in his eye.

"Well, my Lord," began Flor, "they seemed – _satisfied_ would you not say?"

Looking down upon his cousin he grunted in agreement. "She is not what I expected," said the king somewhat contemplatively.

"My Lord?" asked Flor, for what that had to do with his question was beyond him.

"I mean, Flor, that she is wise, and strong, and … _beautiful_…"

Flor looked to Nar in desperation, for if he was not mistaken, his King was smitten – by an _elf,_ no less.

"My Lord!" exclaimed Nar. "You are not…"

"Nay, you _fools_!" he shouted. "I mean simply that she is not the witch I had been expecting, and yes, she was most impressed with our craft. Indeed my thoughts on this journey have taken a decidedly more optimistic turn. We may yet gain help in regaining our home, my friends, we need only play our cards right, and for that we must observe, and learn – bide our time.

…..

Thranduil was taking full advantage of his first journey abroad in over three thousand years, to simply – be an elf. He had forgotten, he realized, what it was to not bear the onus of responsibility from dawn till dusk, had no recollection of what it was to rise at whatever hour he pleased, eat wherever and whenever he wanted, dress as the mood took him.

Indeed it was one of these rare, care-free days that took him towards Galadriel and Celeborn's private abode, high in the Mellryn of Caras Galadhon. He had been admitted with deep reverences and much ceremony, and now found himself sat cross-legged upon a wooden chair that stood before a breathtaking overhang, one that afforded its fortunate occupant with the most stunning view over the treetops of Lothlorien.

The golden light of midmorning bathed the nascent shoots upon the canopy of trees, setting their leaves to shimmering mischievously, winking at him in collusion it seemed, and he smiled, light-hearted for the first time in so many years. His smile waxed nostalgic, and then sad, for such was his sacrifice, such it had been, for Thranduil had given much, and lost more.

It was not until Galadriel herself had glided into the room, followed by her husband, that he stood and turned slowly, waiting for what inevitably, would ensue; the uncomfortable silences, the stilted conversations. These three had a story to tell, one they would doubtless never speak of.

"Welcome – Thranduil King," said Galadriel slowly, meaningfully, as her eyes bored into him, probing.

He smiled conservatively, before nodding his head subtly – only then did she return the gesture, before gliding aside and leaving room for Celeborn. The two males gazed long at each other, remembering every nuance of their faces; the lines and planes, the dimples and angles, features each knew so well.

"Thranduil," said the Lord of Lothlorien simply.

"Celeborn," said Thranduil, a little more intonation in his voice, only partly due to his woodland lilt – one Celeborn had not remembered hearing before.

By the time Thranduil had come back to himself, Galadriel was leading them to their private gardens, where all three sat in contemplative silence, each waiting for another to break the spell, for they had not seen each other for almost three thousand years.

And yet it was not words that snapped the silence eventually, but a soft, elegant hand that smoothed over his cheek, and the brush of golden locks upon his shoulder. Closing his eyes and leaning back into the warm body to steady himself, he opened them once more, only to look into the strong face of Celeborn, a face that moved towards his own until their lips touched and Thranduil whispered his name. The body behind him wrapped around his own and thus he found himself embraced, locked in their loving, protective circle and a single tear escaped him. How he had missed this, them, how he had loved them, before duty had taken him away, had guided him towards a different love and offspring of his own.

The pain had been too great for them all, and their love had petered out, faded with the implacable passage of time, at least that is what they had thought. No letters, no messages, no meetings – nothing and yet – they had not forgotten, and Thranduil truly rejoiced. They had asked for no justification, no words of reproach had been uttered, they simply held him and their own strong emotions soaked through his skin, into his mind; we are here, we have always been here, you are loved…


	13. The Valar's Redemption

Horizon chapter 12: The Valar's Redemption

And here is the last chapter of Horizon. A heartfelt thanks to all who have read and enjoyed this episode of The Protégé. There will be a series of shorter tales, inside the series, that will relate certain 'festivities', and of course, The Protégé's travels to distant lands, in search of alliance and other...experiences.

A humungous thanks to Curious Wombat; through pain and fatigue has this story been expertly beta'd.

Warnings: a little soft het at the beginning of this chapter.

The day dawned bright and cloudless; a subtle, mischievous breeze danced gaily around the white gauze drapes that hung about the open balcony, softly caressing the climbers and branches they were set amongst. And if nature was at all conscious of the day, it did not show it.

Galadriel's eyes slowly focused, and then sharpened upon a powerful thigh that was not her husband's. The frosty blue eyes moved upwards over the soft bulge of his sex, and then, an abdomen so flat and hard her hand twitched of its own accord and her mouth felt moist and pliant of a sudden. The soft pink nipples were pierced as was the Sindarin way – at least of those that had lived in Doriath. Flaxen hair fell in disarray around the still sleeping face of Thranduil, once her lover, and then lover to Celeborn too, until the young prince had taken the leadership from his fallen father, the impetuous whirlwind Oropher – hasty in all things, even unto his own death.

She moved closer to Thranduil's side, reaching out her long, elegant hand slowly to his soft cheek, caressing it with the back of her knuckles as her eyes searched his face and a soft smile transformed the sad hardness of her face.

With a soft rustle of linen, Celeborn leaned over them, looking down upon the object of his wife's scrutiny.

"Have you not had enough of him, Artanis?" he murmured as he, too, reached out to smooth his hand over the hard abdomen.

"Nay – never that, we have many years to make up for, Celeborn – many nights of passion such as this last eve… I can never have my full of him, my love…"

"Nay," conceded the Lord of Lothlorien, "for look at him," he said softly as his grey eyes misted, "look at the power and the beauty, the bridled passion and the hidden agony, see his pride and joy, his regret and _desire_," he trailed off, his last word but an echoing whisper.

"I _do_ see, Celeborn, that, and other things – and I want it _all_," she whispered as she straddled the awakening king, hoisting up her thin robe and pulling it over her head under the lustful gaze of her lord.

One hand sought his awakening desire and she guided it inside her, sighing in utter relief as Celeborn moaned and Thranduil's eyes opened, and then darkened to a blue so deep they seemed almost violet.

Thranduil gasped as he threw his head back into the soft pillow below, his hips raising and his hands reaching for her breasts. She moved into them and felt her lover squeeze and knead, watching as his brow furrowed deeply and he moaned again.

Celeborn lay at his side, watching but not touching, save for a soothing hand that caressed the milky white cheek, and then down to his mouth, open in lust and passion.

A lone tear escaped the king's eye as he came, and Galadriel saw herself then, deep in his watery gaze, yet it was not her anymore but another, the mother of his child, his lost queen. She saw as he awoke to her lovely face every day, and then saw how he awoke alone, century after century, and then she was back, with Celeborn at her side and Thranduil smiled, wondering if, perhaps, she had understood…

…

His battle-calloused hands smoothed over the slick hair, his skillful fingers caressing the clean fragrant locks which clung lovingly, possessively almost, to his lover's strong, naked flanks, covering his exposed skin in a thick golden mantle that was, indeed, fit for a warrior king.

From the corner of his eye, Glorfindel watched the one that would soon be his secondary mate. She worked silently, methodically, rhythmically as she smoothed the cloth over strong bare legs; legs that told many woodland tales of bravery and sacrifice. Glorfindel supposed she looked as he most probably did himself. She was pensive, her mind lost in deep thought, her face painfully sad and her eyes cast downwards as was her wont recently. Funny how the closer the time came, in which she would achieve her heart's desire, the more contemplative and melancholy she became. Yet she seemed hopeful in spite of her lot – as contented as she could be, mused Glorfindel, who had vowed to ally himself with her quest for happiness, if that were at all possible for one whose unconditional love could never be returned – for one that was doomed to spend her life bound to the very elf that had dashed her hopes of complete happiness, for that is what Glorfindel had done to Llyniel.

They had been this way since early morning – had not left Legolas' chamber at all. They had worked as they did now – no speech, no laughter, no singing, nothing – for to do so seemed to Glorfindel to break the strange spell that had descended upon the soon-to-be crowned High King and his future consorts, and it seemed that Llyniel felt the same way. So many things in common, he mused, and he wondered then, if she would ever grant him the honour of bearing his own children…

The sudden explosion of sweet jasmine brought Glorfindel back to the room, as Llyniel coated her hands with a thick cream and began to massage it lovingly into the exposed legs and feet – her mind too, had returned to the present it seemed, for her gaze caught that of Glorfindel, already upon her, and she smiled in understanding.

It was time, he realized, and the Greenwood now awaited its prodigal son – Huoriel, Minuial and Imrah from Finlond had come laden with their woodland secrets in the form of resins, creams, gels, utensils that Glorfindel had never seen in either of his lives. The king's attire was also a mystery to him, although, if he knew Legolas or his people at all – he would surely present himself as a warrior. However, with the Lady Yavanna in the equation who could say what the end result would be, for he still remembered the stunning attire – or lack thereof – that Legolas had worn on the day of Demonstration. She had a penchant for flaunting him and that was the truth, prone as she was to the whims of hair and decoration.

And then there was the carefully guarded chest that the dwarves had brought with them. He had not been present when it had been revealed, for that privilege had been limited to those that would crown the king, and Elrond had not budged an inch on the matter, in spite of Glorfindel's grueling third degree questioning. All Glorfindel had achieved was the deadpan face of the Noldorin Lord, an expression that would then turn into a faint, somewhat 'naughty' smile, before completely dismissing the subject – and Glorfindel.

And so it was that, not long after, he kissed his absent lover's brow reverently, and left the room together with Llyniel, their hands clasped tightly in collusion. Llyn spared one last, longing gaze upon the one she could never fully possess, until Glorfindel's cool, strong hand cupped her face and smiled. 'Take courage' he whispered, glad when she pressed her cheek to his palm and left him for her own quarters.

Standing now upon the overhang of his own talan, Glorfindel took a deep, cleansing breath. He had all afternoon to prepare for the evening that nobody could ever, possibly forget, and so he took his time to take in the day, and straighten his mind – he would not be disturbed, not today. Funny, he mused, surprised almost, that the next time he saw his lover, he would be High King…

….

Mithrandir sat upon his balcony, puffing on his pipe as his blue eyes stared, yet saw nothing at all – at least not in this world.

He sat in a pair of longjohns, not at all the dignified attire of a Maia, but what did he care? Here, in the solitude of his quarters, there was no one to impress, and so as he waited for his robes to be returned to him, clean and pressed, he savoured his pipe and waded through the last few months in his, now, blissfully clear mind.

He could not quite believe that they had come this far at all. It had been but a distant plan just a scant few years ago – and now, in the blink of an eye, the Valar had chosen their king and agreed to the way forward. It had not been easy, of course, and there had been much thought and analysis, politics and diplomacy, sacrifice and pain.

The Greenwood had finally come out of their shell, allied now with Imladris, Lothlorien and Mithlond. Their leaders agreed upon a common goal – at least to some extent. Even the humans and dwarves had agreed at least to attend the coronation and, he hoped, the talks that would inevitably follow.

It was coming together and, in consequence, the meaning of his own existence was slowly but inexorably, defining itself, unveiling his own destiny along the way.

He exhaled the heavy, fragrant smoke slowly, relishing the rush of saliva and the tickle of tastebuds, and then he smiled tentatively.

It occurred to him, that maybe – maybe this was the Valar's redemption, in a sense. They too, had erred so many years ago, in another, distant age, with one that was so alike with Legolas that it was uncanny, albeit there were stark differences to anyone that had known them both.

He clutched the bowl of his pipe and slid it slowly from his mouth as realization came to him in a rush of unbridled emotion. Could it be, he mused, that this was no simple coincidence, but a conscious, calculated effort to find the one that would give them a second chance – without the errors of the past – for _he_ too, had been chosen, and then cast aside as an expendable element. Little did they understand the love that others held for him, the rancor they would feel against the Valar for deserting and condemning their beloved Noldorin king, so much as to turn their backs on Valinor and follow their leader, in spite of the consequences.

He breathed deeply. Had they finally accepted their blame? He wondered. Well, Manwë could just as well have come out and told him so – but of course then, he would not be Manwë, and he chuckled out loud. And then the maia realized that surely the very fact that it had occurred to him at all, was proof enough that he _was_ right – this _was _the Valar's redemption, and he wondered - he wondered if Galadriel would agree with him…

….

Ecthelion stood before the impressive mirror in the generous quarters he had been assigned, only slightly raised from the forest floor. He'd done his lot of climbing trees as a boy, but he could never compare to the skillful grace with which the elves climbed them.

Rarely had he been required to wear such formal robes, but then he had never attended a coronation, and his father had been adamant that he should represent Gondor in the proper fashion, almost as if he were a prince and his father king. Not that there was much difference, he mused, for the people of Gondor treated them as monarchs, their faith in the return of a king all but a distant fantasy, a story told to their children, avid for tales of chivalry and adventure.

And so there he stood, in his black velvet breeches and long tunic, with silver trimmings down the front and around the sleeves. An opulent belt of mithril and pearls sat low upon his waist and his black boots shone so that they seemed wet.

He was well-favoured, or so they said, and today he rather thought they may be right. He smiled ruefully at himself, staring back though the mirror. At fifty-two years of age, he was the perfect picture of male human beauty. His dark hair was untouched by grey, still soft and slightly wavy, hanging just above his strong swordsman's shoulders, and his face was still smooth and unlined, unlike some of his friends, even though they were younger. They were not blessed with the legacy of the firstborn, the gift of an enhanced lifespan - they were not Numenorian.

Slipping his ring of office onto his right forefinger, he turned at the sound of a sharp rap upon his door. Damrod, he knew, for the agitation in that knock reflected the man's permanent state of aggressive criticism and debasement of anything and anyone not Gondorian.

"Come," he called.

Indeed Damrod entered in the reluctant company of Baranor and Aranel, a servient Nimruzir dipping his head in deference as he too, moved into the spacious room.

"Please sit," Ecthelion invited, gesturing with his hand to the sofas as he moved to the table and the wine. Handing them all a glass, he sat and drank, his eyes roving over each one, their apparel meeting with his approval.

"Well, our first elven crowning, my Lords. What do we know of their customs, Nimruzir?" asked Ecthelion, for he truly had no idea what to expect of the evening, and neither did Baranor and Aranal, whose heads swiveled in unison towards the knowledgeable scribe.

"Well, I found very little on the subject during my investigations in Minas Tirith prior to our departure. I _did_, however, have the chance to ask Mithrandir on the evening's events."

"You have been busy," remarked Baranor as he sat forward.

"Yes, my Lord. I considered it my duty to research the elves, their culture and political structures and so forth, yet Mithrandir has been most helpful."

"He has ever been allied to _them_," said Damrod, his snide smile disappearing as he sipped his wine."

"Yes, well," interjected Aranal, "tell us then, what he said about it."

"Of course, my Lord. It seems that the evening's events will be somewhat – low key. We are to gather in a glade where the crowning will take place. There will be music and singing, but no dancing. A banquet will be offered right there and, I believe, that is the sum of it. Tomorrow, now…"

"Tomorrow?" asked Baranor.

"Yes, they say that tomorrow will be a mighty ball, with dancing and story-telling and delicacies of all sorts, and..."

"Nimruzir…" said Ecthelion flatly, for the man was starting to babble.

"Forgive me my lord. In summary; today is a respectful evening, full of symbolism and spiritualism, and tomorrow is for partying, drunken debauchery and …. Carnal delight?" he said, as if asking the question.

Damrod spluttered as Aranal and Baranor covered their mouths, although not enough to hide the grin that had spread over their faces. Ecthelion cleared his throat, and then looked at the scribe for clarification.

"I can only guess, my Lord," he said as he held up his hands in defense. "It seems the elves are quite…_liberal,_ with their affections."

"I will _not_ be party to an _orgy_, Lord Ecthelion!" spat an outraged Damrod.

"You have not yet been invited," said Ecthelion calmly, yet it was enough to make Baranor guffaw aloud, and Nimruzir to snort most inelegantly. Aranal simply watched the exchange wide-eyed, his eyebrows arched high upon his forehead.

"My Lord," said a now simmering Damrod, "should they dare to invite me, I will _kill_ them!"

"Damrod!" thundered Ecthelion. "Hold your wayward tongue, man!"

"I will not…" Damrod got no further, for in one long stride, Ecthelion, son of Turgon, stood but inches from a steaming Damrod's flared nostrils and clenching jaw.

"I said, hold your tongue – _councilor_, you will answer harshly for any misconduct," he warned, his voice low and menacing, his eyes fixed on Damrod's, authority and strength emanating from him almost tangibly. "One word out of line, one look that is misconstrued – anything you do to jeopardize the chance of peace and alliance between humans and elves – will be duly documented and reported to my lord steward and you _will_ answer – to me, and to Gondor – do you understand, councilor?" he said slowly, as if speaking to an ill-favoured child.

Damrod's eyes finally turned away from his fuming lord, and he gave but a stilted nod to show he had, indeed, understood.

….

Ram en' Ondo sat polishing his long sword, his strong arm sweeping over the sharpened blade from tip to hilt almost obsessively. He moved on to the handle, feeling the etchings beneath the cloth … 'I am of the Company, servant of Thranduil King'.

Behind him, Koron en' Naur braided his long chestnut locks methodically, twisting and intertwining expertly, clipping it back onto the crown of his head, pulling the sides so tight they made his eyes slant.

At their side sat Pengon, who was also polishing – in his case – his long long boots, paying special attention to the hard metallic tip and heel pieces, his forearm muscles flexing with every vigorous swipe of soft cloth.

The Company had chosen one of the quieter glades to prepare themselves together – not that there were many places left in Caras Galadhon where peace could be had, for it was filled to the brim with elves, humans and dwarves. Quiet it may be, but they were not alone, for other warriors also prepared themselves not far away, glancing in their direction from time to time, for however humble these elite warriors may be, they simply could not dissimulate the spectacle that was their physical appearance.

Myth hung about them, and many lays had been composed in honor of them and their dead comrades. Unlike Imladris, Lothlorien's population had grown with the stories of The Company, and some of their warriors had even met them in the southern reaches of the Greenwood, where their territories met.

Dimaethor stood, only half-dressed, his arms open to the sides as Glammohtar twisted the forest green velvet around his waist and then half his chest and one arm. Their Noldorin warrior was already prepared, and the Company had been heartened to see that the colour of his own velvet was also forest green, and not the burgundy he would have worn as a Noldo. The ornate eagle's feather that sat proudly inside the knot of black hair at his own crown told them that today, Melven Hadorion was not alone, for Lindohtar's spirit would walk with him, with _them,_ as witness to their lord's crowning.

It was the approaching sounds of metal and leather that brought them from their internal musings, for Henian, General of the Greenwood, approached with one hundred foot warriors behind him, moving as one, dressed as one – perfect, immaculate. The general bowed low and the Company answered the deference. It was time to stand behind their lords and witness the future become the present.

….

The flets and halls of Caras Galadhon were empty.

There was no gay laughter from the boughs, no smells of homely cooking, no clanging swords on the training fields, only distant sounds of chanting echoed on and on, setting the elves in motion. They followed the sound, as if it were a siren call, an irresistible summons that appealed to their subconscious minds and they followed, absent almost.

Luscious velvets, silks and cottons undulated in the soft breeze, caressed their boots and shoes and bare feet as they walked, solemnly, hands clasped in humility before them. Some wore rings of office, bands of military honour, or crowns of station, yet all followed the call – the call of the Valar themselves, they murmured.

The sun was falling into the western sky, approaching the open horizon that faced Elvenhome, and although the sea could not be seen, even with elven eyes, it was in their minds, in their hearts, as if the blue strip of salty liquid were truly there, in the gap between the trees that encircled the rest of the glade.

No clouds decorated the failing afternoon, only blue sky, blue horizon and green trees to frame it. The air was warm and the sun was large as it approached the distant, invisible sea, its edges now rimmed with a fiery red that brought to mind the colour of life, of death, of violence – yet also of courage, passion, sacrifice.

The glade was full, yet the noise was muted. Those few who dared speak did so behind hands, or murmured into each other's ears.

The citizens of Lothlorien, Mithlond and the Greenwood stood still and silent, beautiful in their robes and jewels, and yet more for the expressions of hope and awe they wore, for gone were the rumours and the laments that told of the migration of the elves, the end of their time on Middle-earth. Now, they spoke of a new age, another opportunity, free from the black shadow of oppression. They worked now, for a land of peace and freedom, a second coming, a choice to stay or sail – optimism and enthusiasm were slowly creeping back into their long lives and a still distant but thrumming power was beginning to beat a rhythm, a collective force that needed a leader to guide them into this new age, restore what once was in that first age of splendor.

Further forwards, stood the nobles and dignitaries of the elven realms, together with the human and dwarven representatives. Their robes were laden with brocades, their jewels and blades glinting discretely in the dying light. Here stood Erestor, Celeborn, Aerion and Gildor, together with the ruling councils of Greenwood and Lothlorien, and at their side, Haldir, Galdithion, Henian of the Greenwood, and an honour guard of Galadhrim who stood proudly in their ceremonial uniforms of grey and black, their medals and honours on display for any who cared to look and admire.

Dàin, exiled king of the dwarves stood with his heavily booted feet set wide, his hands tucked inside the ornate metallic belt around his armoured body. One small axe was tucked inside the folds of his skirts, while another, much larger, sat across his back, the lush rust coloured cape draping around it to the floor, the same colour as his braided beard that brushed his knuckles…

Ecthelion, son of Turgon steward of Gondor. Faithful son and brave commander. He stood in awe of the moment yet skilled he was, and favoured with steely blood that did not betray his raging emotions. He turned only slightly, admiring the fierce warriors that stood not far to his left. They were different to the other warriors; stronger, taller, their uniforms different, the only warriors any had ever seen that wore decorations and he wondered, wondered if alliance was truly possible with a race so different to his own, human, culture.

And finally, at the fore, stood those that would place their hands upon the crown of Elvendom, those that would invest this new king. Galadriel, Lady of Light, robed in glowing white and silver, her aura so bright she seemed unreal, translucent … blessed now with a brother and ally in Gildor Inglorion.

Thranduil, King of the Greenwood, who stood tall and proud in his moss green velvet and sky blue silk, his long mantle of rich brown with golden brocade – mighty sword at his hip and a crown of jewels and green leaves upon his river of rich golden hair that moved not; so tightly and intricately had it been braided. At his back stood the strange Avarin guard, Lainion, his twin blades drawn and crossed at his own back, ready to end the life of any who dared raise a hand against his lord…

Elrond, Lord of Imladris, son of Eärendil the mariner, was clad in black and burgundy, his hair adorned with clips of mithril and a crown that sat low upon his august brow, caressed his temples and then swirled beneath the dark, Noldorin locks as he awaited he who would become his king, he who would lead the elves to their new awakening, his lover…

A deep blast of many horns, just one long and unnerving base note, and Legolas looked up to the window, as did Glorfindel and Llyniel. It stopped long enough to have them wondering what it had been, only to start again, and again, until a rhythm of equidistant, monotone explosions of baritone resounded throughout Caras Galadhon. It rumbled through their bodies, echoed around them, vibrating in their ears and setting the nerve ends of their hair to prickling in anticipation.

It seemed to Mithrandir as though they were being summoned, not by the musicians of Lothlorien or the Greenwood, but by the Valar themselves. His skin prickled as the roots of his hair stiffened, and he resisted the urge to scratch under his pristine hat. It was not a pleasant sound but a compelling, irresistible call, a demonstration of power - a warning almost. Even the Mellyrn leaves shuddered as the deep note vibrated and pounded.

Elladan floated towards him, his grave face turned to the sound, before turning to Mithrandir.

"It is time…" he said simply, as if absent.

"Yes, it is time…" said the wizard solemnly, as he waited for Elladan to take up his position to the left of Legolas. Glorfindel walked at his right, and in the middle, a little way behind, was Llyniel.

He looked upon them then, for one last time, before duty took their lives away from them, because from this day forth, their wills were not their own. That was the price they would pay, not that they had had any choice in the matter, and the Valar's implacable cruelty made his heart weep for an instant, for it _was_ cruelty, however necessary it may be.

There were no words in all the languages he was cognizant of, to describe the magnetism and strength of Legolas. And, if he was peerless when naked, being clothed and decorated as he had been today, made him simply otherworldly. Indeed Mithrandir was struck with the same similitude that had come to him just the day before and again he wondered, was this mere chance?

Manwë's protégé guided them out, slowly, his long staff moving back and forth majestically, its tip glowing slightly for, although it was still light, the glow offered him comfort, just as he knew it would to those who followed him.

Under the admiring gaze of all, only Legolas and Mithrandir continued to the front line. Legolas, however, took a few steps more and gazed into the horizon as the fiery red ball approached it, unstoppable, shimmering and wavering before his eyes. It would sink soon, below the horizon, into the sea, and he wondered at the analogy that came to him.

Turning, he faced those that watched him, smiled indulgently at them as they approached, the dwarven wrought crown now revealed and held high, and then he slowly sank to his knees, bowing his head in deference. This was the end, and the beginning…

…

The hours had passed in muted conversation – none of them wanted to think about the future, only digest the events that had taken place not an hour before.

Legolas had received his first bows of deference, feeling as their eyes lingered upon his face, and then drifted upwards to the crown of Elvendom. His father had stared openly as his eyes registered every gem, every swirl of precious metal, as if committing it all to memory. Indeed Dáin himself had spent much of the evening explaining its creation to the delight and wonder of all.

And then, Legolas had simply wandered away. He needed privacy to centre himself for, however much he tried, he still could not believe what destiny had in store for him, could not yet perceive that he was High King.

He knew that Mithrandir followed him, for the trees had whispered it was so, but he cared not, for his friend would not encroach upon his privacy lest Legolas required it of him, and so he continued to wander aimlessly, his mind furiously at work.

Darkness was now full upon the land and still he remained in the forest, sitting now beneath a young tree in a glade where the treetops afforded him a peek of the evening sky, dotted and smeared with white, blue and orange lights, twinkling and scintillating above him – it was a beautiful night – would that he could sit here forever…

"'Tis a chill night, young king…"

Legolas smiled, for he had been wondering how long it would take for Mithrandir to invite himself.

"You would light a fire, here in the Lady's realm?" asked Legolas drolly.

"Fire you say? Nay, save for the one that will light my pipe," he said, emerging from the trees behind Legolas and sitting beside him, already tapping the clay bowl against a rock beside his foot.

Silence reigned then, as orange illuminated the wizened façade that was Mithrandir's face, his tobacco glowing a cozy orange, its rich aroma tickling Legolas' nose.

He turned his head back up towards the stars, their light reflecting in his emerald green eyes, off the jewels that lay on his brow, upon the crown of Elvendom.

Mithrandir watched him thoughtfully as he drew on the pipe and savoured the tang in his mouth.

The strong profile, the utter beauty of his face, framed as it was by intricately braided hair and precious metal – and then he saw _him_ again, as if _his_ profile were just behind that of Legolas, as though they both sat there, contemplating the night sky, both with a jewel upon their brow.

"Eärendil sails overhead," murmured the king, his eyes fixed on the Mariner. "How brightly he shines on this night… I have never seen the likes…." He trailed off.

Mithrandir's eyes moved reluctantly from the kingly profiles and to the asterism above. It was true, the colours were so very vivid, so bright, as bright as he had ever seen them. It reminded him of the night that Elladan had made his choice, and he wondered.

"She reminds me, I think," murmured the king once more.

Mithrandir's eyes wandered back to the king. What a strange thing his friend had said, he mused. "She?" he asked softly.

"Yes," he said almost wistfully, "Yavanna," he said at last.

Mithrandir's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What does she remind you of? What has that to do with the Mariner?"

Legolas turned his placid face to Mithrandir and smiled. "Because Eärendil wears a jewel upon his brow, a jewel that contains the light of the Two, the light I must return to the White Tree."

"Legolas…" he began, but then found he did not know what he wanted to ask.

"I _feel_ it," he said, frowning, "I feel it close to me, around me, Mithrandir, a bliss so great I would reach out and grasp it, and yet it escapes me and I am left with a yearning," he whispered, as he leaned back against the tree at his back, his eyes closed, tears leaking from their corners.

"You are blessed, Legolas, and although this I already knew, from the moment I first saw you upon Elrond's balcony – now, seeing you here, at the beginning of our arduous road – you truly are the Valar's king of elves."

"The beauty, Mithrandir…. " he wavered, unable to continue, "if I could but touch it, once..."

"You will, my friend, one day when all is done, you will, and you shall be rewarded – we _all_ will," assured the maia, a slow, tentative hand reaching out to squeeze Legolas' thigh. "This is the light you must carry, this is the power you must then pass on to the White Tree, so that men may rule their lands together, in peace and brotherhood."

THE END


End file.
